


Kingdoms of the Sun

by Eastern_Standard, Est, Wanderlust3988



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate History, Ancient History, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Drama & Romance, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Historical Fantasy, Pharaoh Seto, Politics, Reader-Insert, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-03-17 15:35:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 134,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13661985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eastern_Standard/pseuds/Eastern_Standard, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Est/pseuds/Est, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderlust3988/pseuds/Wanderlust3988
Summary: The way you saw it, you had two choices. Stay in your home country and be sacrificed in a ghastly ritual, or leave and become the pretty arm accessory of a warmonger whom rumors claimed to have no interest in women. Naturally you chose to leave. You didn't wish for death.Then you discovered that the rumors were only half right. The ruler of the Kingdom of the Sun didn't care for women... until he laid his eyes on you.





	1. Bride of the Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Surprise! This is something that’s been in the works for a while and it’s a collaboration work between Est and I (Edit: 21/02/18 we’ll be going under his AO3 name going forward Eastern_Standard). I was shooting ideas around and he quite literally made something out of it and created the entire historical backdrop to make this story possible. Going forward, basically, anything political will be taken care of by him and romance by me though we do discuss ideas back and forth on everything so some ingenious romance plots have been furthered by him also.
> 
> I put Kaiba in here because I didn’t know if people searched for Priest Seto very often so sorry if that was misleading because this is entirely set in 3000BCE/ 5000 years ago. 
> 
> Some references: Khemet refers to Egypt here for anyone curious, and this takes place about a decade after Seto takes over the title of Pharaoh. 
> 
> I haven’t seen any fics for Priest Seto around besides references in modern day stories so we came up with this!
> 
> Anyway, I do hope you all enjoy, and do let us know what you think!

Fate had decided you would become a queen and wouldn’t be convinced otherwise, some would say, but you didn’t believe in fate. Fate had decided you would die. You would live; so if it did in fact exist, it was wrong. You believed this was enough reason to not invest any faith in the superstition.

You would live.

An ominous expression darkening your face against the crackle of the waning fire at dawn, the whisper of the desert wind had become your lullaby. Not tonight, tonight your thoughts conversed a little too loudly.

To say the absence of pearly crests; the break of azure waves against white sand and jagged white cliffs spilling with green was disconcerting, would be a grim euphemism. Here, the wind burbling against raised sails in the distance was replaced by its drone against the tarps of tents. Sand dunes spiralled to each faraway horizon and spun itself to meet the centre of the very earth itself.

Your cape was too heavy; sand had sewn itself into the intricate weave of the hand embroidery. It was too warm as day broke, concealing every part of you, your hair tucked under the draped hood, but Pharaoh Nekhtsethenes was said to have no interest in women; he had not spared a glance at one over the decade of his reign, so his impression of you as a woman would not matter when you saw him tomorrow. He just needed to tolerate you.

Some rumours said he preferred men; indeed, there were many rumours of the man who straddled the reality between the mortal realm and the one beyond, but you had come to accept one interpretation of him, and it was the story of those whose homes he had burned down and blood he had spilt; he was a barbarian who rivalled the devil itself.

Even years later, the whispers of their memories wandered the desert, lingering among the howling wind, surely to break against the walls of the great empire. This Pharaoh was nothing like his predecessor, the man who had sacrificed himself to save the nation.

Months of toiling on camel back, conquering two by two the sweltering sun and unforgiving dunes, it had been long since the fairytales you had painted of him and his great empire in your mind’s eye had burnt like vaporizing mirages. Except you had not painted them alone, and your mind often wandered to find the man who spoke of this prosperous oasis as if it were a gift from the gods themselves.

Mahaado, his name rolled unusually on your tongue, it always had. Men of your nation didn’t have names with such vigour, they grazed the palate much easier, though perhaps that was a trained mix of practice and perception.

Leaning forward over you knees folded against your chest, you twisted the dull gold dial of the canary bird, its wings clumsily crafted out of thick wood, and sanded to a rough finish stained ochre. When wound, the chick would spring up and down on your palm, its bent limbs lifting and folding. A small smile defied your somber expression. The man called Mahaado had called it a toy. You had never before owned such a thing. It was endlessly fascinating. It fell over on its side sometimes, the little bird, the wear of the years apparent on its chipped beak and fading paint. The face of the winding key had lost its gloss under the rub of your fingertips. You would dare to call it your greatest treasure. In comparison to the solace this leaping canary offered, the jewels weighing your cape afforded you no happiness.

Not to be mistaken, you had no interest in men; only in survival - and you supposed the jewels on your cape would further your purpose more than a little canary did but we all have our exceptions. Nor did you carry any lingering attachments to cities or people, they were all just places to exist in, and as for people, it only mattered if they would aid your survival or abet in your murder. It was black and white. People needlessly confused themselves by seeing colour. If someone else’s survival depended upon your murder, you would understand their blade at your throat; survival justified all else. Was there a greater glory than the title survivor?

Or had you gloried the one luxury that seemed to perpetually elude you in life — living?

...

You couldn’t be sure when sleep had come.

As always, your dreams were a vivid depiction of the mirage you had once treasured, carried even in your journey to this new world.

You dreamt of a crashed envoy of strange ships; their sails a vivid vermillion, their sterns resembling curved saffron blossoms with sapphire sepals carved from wood.

The Northern shores of Genova had never seen a pigment so brilliant washed up against its rocky beaches. You watched from the temple of Artemis, nestled into the cliffside across the shallow water channel; the trinkets of the merchants floating amongst the crystal waters. The Honour Guardsmen led by Captai Rhaegar, met the foreign men in turbans and long cloaks on your shores.

You remembered nurturing one distinct feeling in the pit of your turning stomach; the desperate need to survive. You were on borrowed time. At the time, you drew no connection between the appearance of these strange men and survival, it was mere curiosity which drove you to explore the wreck.

It would become the second most important decision you would ever make — among the many harebrained ones you would also live to.

Some noble men and council officials had gathered on the beach by the time of your arrival. It would have been too precarious to scale the cliffs and swim across the narrow channel so the journey had taken a short while on horseback. The faces of the overly plump swine lit up at your sight — you were the one being raised for slaughter, why was it them who resembled livestock, you always wondered.

The train of your embellished lilac cloak grazing the pebbled shore, you drew back your hood, your nine handmaidens mirroring your motion at your cue.

The men fell in waves to their knees, offering you their deepest respects. You motioned for them to stand.

“You men are in luck,” a courtier of your lord uncle’s court bragged, gesturing to you, “Her Highness is the niece of our Great Emperor Delphini XV. As the chosen Bride of the Moon, the crown princess personifies good fortune. The gods have promised you men a safe journey back.”

Your eyes darted to appraise the men robed in linen, worn from their journey. One in particular stood out. His rich skin didn’t stick to his bones the way it did on the other men and he appeared muscular under the drenched and tattered cloak. His angular slate eyes seemed to study you the way you did him as he addressed you, “The Bride of the Moon?” he questioned. His accent was foreign, understandably, though he spoke with enough eloquence that you understood him.

“Yes,” the noble swine replied, “she is the promised Bride of the Moon. High Priestess of the temple of Artemis. She is our symbol of beauty, fertility and good harvest. Her image is an incarnation of the moon goddess herself.”

Yes, what an inconveniently convoluted string of honorary titles for a pig groomed to perfection for slaughter at the realization of womanhood. Of course, you had not known this when your step mother had volunteered you for the honour of this glorified death warrant, at the innocent age of thirteen; serving the oh so gracious Moon God for good harvest and prosperity had been your first bid at survival. Not one you regretted, you liked to think, at least too much. Your alternative would have been to naively wait to succeed your uncle, until a poison arrow from your scheming step mother pinned you in your jugular.

“I don’t think this man is in the mood for a history lesson Baron,” you interrupted. “Let him tell his story.”

“It is an honour to be in your presence your highness,” the head merchant offered with a bow of his head. “My envoy was attacked by pirates while we were home bound to Khemet. We were separated from our fleet in the ambush and found ourselves here. Please allow us to repair our boats and replenish supplies so we can return home.”

The men seemed trustful enough, so you obliged his request. “Stay as long as you need. Captain Rhaegar,” you addressed the head of the Honour Guard, “see that these men are attended to and assist them in anyway which would be of help in expediting their journey back home.”

Left at the mercy of the nobles, these weary merchants would have had their blood sucked dry in exchange for refuge and supplies.

You in return, only asked for stories of this faraway nation the man called Khemet.

Conceived at the heart the Nile, in his every story, it was the land of life, and they conceived in your mind, the seeds for an escape from what would otherwise become your inevitable fate. You would make this promised land your second leash at life. Death would come to collect nothing on the day of sacrifice.

...

You woke up to howling sand dunes at dawn; the resting caravan slowly animating. You questioned if you had ever slept, though the fragments of your dreams remained vivid under your eyelids. Tucking the wooden canary into your cloak, you sat up. Your handmaidens — the ones you had been spared — were gathering your possessions in preparation for the day’s journey.

Allowing your long midnight tresses to spill out from under your hood — as long as the Nile you had been told it was, on your travels — you too prepared for the day, longing for a morning where you were no longer woken to the writhing of dust and sweat, dying your olive skin a faded russet.

By the bank of the Blue Nile you overheard the Honour Guardsmen captain and his lieutenant occupied in a conversation you regarded inconsequential to you, though you absently listened in as you washed the dirt beginning to permanently coat your limbs.

"Captain Rhaegar," said the lieutenant cautiously. "If I might trouble you sir... just why are we marching so strongly in response to Ramsay Delphini's orders?"

"Because he ordered us," Rhaegar Darnassus answered simply. "And a bannerman must always serve obediently and without question, unless given reason otherwise. Or does the concept of fealty elude you, Lieutenant Maurith?"

"No, of course not!" said the younger guardsman with a furious shake of his bald head. "I am merely saying that this is... more than I expected of you. Considering the situation with those blasted sea dogs targeting our ports back home, I mean. And the history between the head and branch Imperial families of our Holy Empire."

"Lord Ramsay volunteered himself as royal ambassador while fully aware of the consequences," Rhaeger says with a shrug of his armoured shoulders "The last time a Delphini was in another country without the protection of Honor Guardsmen, it didn't end well for the Holy Empire. Does that suffice, or are you intent on interrogating me all morning?"

"No, no, that's quite all right. Apologies, sir."

A moment of silence lapsed between the two men before your quiet presence a distance drew their notice. Greeting you a pleasant morning they offered simultaneously deep bows.

“My deepest sympathies, crown princess,” the lieutenant spoke. “I don’t imagine the harsh environment of the desert agrees with you.”

Of course not moron, having boiled water and some skin corroding acid meant to cleanse toxins wiped over with a wash clothe hardly compares to being bathed in rose petal water by nine handmaidens morning and night.

Instead you chose a tamer response, “I’m no longer your crown princess, nor am I the Bride of the Moon, I am soon to be a vassal of Khemet and I think it would be best if you make a habit of addressing me without lavish titles. And I’m adjusting just fine captain, thank you for your concerns.” With a shallow tilt of your head meant to be conveyed as a bow acknowledging his concern, you fisted your draping cape as you climbed the river bank back to the campsite.

At night you would again make camp by the dark waters of the Nile. And under the veil of night by the silence of dying campfires, you would hear the gruesome depictions of the Black Purges whispered amongst the displaced survivors crossing paths; of how Pharaoh had conquered the Black Lands, cleansing tribes and nations in the wake of his ascension.

“You have heard of them,” an elder recounted, his tremulous voice threatening to be carried away in the wind. “And you have heard of "Him", their ruler. A man, it has been said, to be the avatar of the gods they worship, wielding their terrible divine strength. A man with no blood, no heart. He feeds on stone, on bones, on shadows...” The man’s voice thinned, memory sparking terrible fear in dull eyes, before surrendering to the wail of the wind entirely. In those eyes you saw the flames which had burned down their cities.

A younger man began where his elder had forgotten his words, jaded youth fizzling like a brook from his voice, “We have been trained to sing praise for the might of our glorious cities. We have been taught our greatest heroes of our land were its citizens.”

In those eyes you saw yourself, except you had no nation to sing the glory of.

“But our city was overrun, our resources exhausted, our men taken to be soldiers or to work as slaves,” the young man beside him recollected. “Our citizens cowered in their houses, afraid for their lives. I know — I was one of them.”

“There was nothing we could do to stop Him,” the first young traveller said. “Our kings were slain, and their children.”

...

In your dreams you saw him; a different him, a kinder man with soft slate eyes and a kinder smile. His complexion a warm honey under the mild Delphini sun. You wondered if you would see him once you entered the Great City. And if you did, what would years more under the harsh Khemetian sun have done to that face which remained so lucid in your memory? Would he see you who had barely been on the cusp of womanhood then as a woman now? Did it matter? It didn’t.

The conversations played over in your head nevertheless.

“Pardon my ignorance your highness, but I still do not understand clearly, what is the duty of the Bride of the Moon?” the merchant called Mahaado asked.

You were walking beside him on the shores beneath the Temple of Artemis. The other Khemetian men did not speak your language and so you only ever spoke with Mahaado. You had come to befriend this man. Perhaps your only friend, though it would take years for you to recognize this.

“To the people of my nation, the Bride of the Moon represents beauty, femininity, fertility and good harvest.” At its core it was truly morbid, sacrificing the blood of this symbol to the tides in worship of a god no one has ever seen.

“But you’re a child,” Mahaado remarked, before realization of his words dawned on him and he pleaded you for your mercy.

“In century seven eighty the first bride sacrificed herself,” you told him, “and the moon blessed our fishermen with a bountiful harvest and our merchants with calm tides. So every half a century, we repeat this tradition, and our nation has never been without. That I’m a child is irrelevant.”

Noticing your solemness tainted with concealed resentment, “The gods are cruel,” the man dared to say, voicing your thoughts — the first ever to do so — “ to take and keep such a beauty to themselves...” He appeared pensive. “Certainly there’s someone more deserving.”

You should have disputed those words, defended the sacred Bride Ritual in the name of the Holy Empire, but he was nourishing your mind with ambrosia of rebellion, and over the course of the several years which followed, you would commit the highest treason, turning nation against nation, branding yourself a commodity worth exchanging in this transaction to appease the bloodless king of a faraway nation.

...

Days bled into nights, and then again into day; blurring the margins of reality. You awoke to the same grey dawn; same weary artisans and guardsmen and ladies in waiting, assembling for another day of burning in hellfire on earth trekking the desert sands. This god they referred to as Ra you had grown resentful of.

As owl light draped the desert, greeting the caravan, battered, by the curtain of night, a group of horsemen in matching dark blue tunics and white hooded cloaks met your escort.

"Royal Ambassador Lord Ramsay of House Delphini! Captain Rhaegar Darnassus of the Honour Guardsmen, Hero of the Holy Empire!" said the muscular bearded man at the fore of the horsemen as he rode to a stop before the old veteran. "I am called Omar, Chief Inquisitor of the Blue Militia. In the name of Pharaoh and all of my people, I welcome you to the Kingdom of the Sun."

"Kind of you to do so," Ramsay offered with a guarded smirk. "Seeing as I haven't actually entered it."

Indeed, the travelling party was perhaps a quarter of a mile away, the sight of the grand exotic structures in the distance. It looked rather magnificent, if grim and foreboding beneath the velvet night sky. The home of the Tyrant of the Black Lands...

"Aye," Omar says with a serious nod. "But my men will be directing your party to the riverside so as to decamp. We're still waiting on the representatives from the Red Court to arrive, though your men are a welcome sight. The Vizier is also waiting to welcome you at the temple of Amun."

"Lieutenant Maurith," Ramsay said after a moment's decision "Go with the rest of the envoy, and see to it their bellies are filled and their thirsts quenched. Remind the men that we are guests here, and that any troublemakers will answer to my steel. Above all else, let nothing harm the Tributes. Captain Rhaegar, with me."

"Aye, milord."

"Now then," Ramsay offered as the party split as directed. "Lead on, Chief Inquisitor Omar. We wouldn't want to keep the Vizier waiting."

...

For once your sleep was dreamless, plagued by restless agitation in the early morning hours.

Your handmaidens bathed you in the Nile, a practice you always found so savage and uncivilized. You couldn’t fathom how an empire who claimed themselves to be unequal to any other on earth could condone and even promote such indecency as a part of culture. The fragrance they doused you in was unfamiliar; lotus blossom, a commodity rivalling gold. It was potent, you were convinced a blood hound could trace you three miles away. A prized aphrodisiac, it would entice Pharaoh, you were advised. You had no mind to entice anyone, if only your survival wasn’t hinged upon it.

Your dress was woven from gold thread; gilded blooms stretching to your wrists over tulle sleeves, wreaths of embroidered hyacinths spiralling your skirt and embellishing your bodice. Your hair was draped in a lace of moonstone, the tiara your empire’s crown princess donned replaced with a diadem of opal, spanning your forehead. Over the ethereal gown, a hooded cape seemingly spun from stardust concealed your Indian ink hair, weighing you under its dense weave of topaz and diamonds.

Stepping out, Lord Ramsay Delphini met you before your tent.

“Cousin! I must woefully inform you that His Majestic Personage has graciously lent you a palanquin. Can you set aside your distaste for extravagance and humour him?" He entreated you with a jaunty bow. Cousin; that was a fact you would prefer to forget. How was this pompous jester an offspring of your family, you often wondered, though considering your other relations, you would then question yourself whether being slightly unhinged was the norm, and not the exception. Your perception of him as a pest standing, you felt unusual empathy for him this morning, after all, should Pharaoh deem the offerings unworthy, the consequences would fall on his head, quite literally — more specifically, in the form of an axe falling over his neck.

“Can I refuse?”

“Not if you wish to be allowed passage into their humble abode.”

“Lead the way,” you told him, shielding your head under your draped hood from the late morning desert sun.

Twenty-four footmen accompanied the awaiting gilded palanquin crowned with sculpted petals of lotus. Polished pillars supported the petal rim, separating the three elaborately carved windows which adorned each side.

“Ramsay,” you called him accusingly, “you told me extravagant, this rivals the chariot of an ostentatious god.”

“Forgive me cousin, it is as I said at the request of His Majesty.”

You should not have been surprised at the notion of being presented to ruler of Khemet on a silver platter as if the ripe head of a well-fed pig at a feast. Still, no amount of preparation could ease the indignation.

Mounting the imposing structure, you found enough room to house a small army. The comfortable appearance of the interior decorated with crimson silk was cruelly deceiving; the lack of ventilation once all the windows were closed, transforming it into a wood fire oven. It required all twenty-four footmen to lift the monstrosity off the ground.

Your right window opened just a crack as the party embarked on the final quarter mile of the desert to the capitol city of Sepfuruna, Ramsay galloped beside you on a chestnut stallion — another gift from the palace you assumed — versing you on court etiquette.

Do not speak until spoken to, do not meet the Pharaoh’s eyes unless called to; it was basic court etiquette. You didn’t think it needed to be reiterated; that the tyrant could demand your head at his whim was also not a necessary reminder.

As the gates to the city parted, your fate was sealed behind the last open window shut and locked. Through them erupted the clamour of the curious crowds, beyond your eyes, as the envoy traversed the city’s central plaza — the Emporium, as Ramsay enlightened.

Several native handmaidens from the palace guided your hand in disembarking the palanquin at the doors leading to Pharaoh’s audience chamber, your own handmaidens attending to the train of your cape. Swathed in the heavy cloak, not an inch of your skin saw the Khemetian sun as you were led under the shade of a roof. The draping hood obscuring your vision trained over the hem of you gown, handmaidens escorted you forward; your veiled eyes only affording you the sights of Captain Rhaegar’s and Ramsay’s backs, guarding you closely.

You counted twenty seven steps before you were brought to a stand still, steps ahead of you, the Captain and the proud Lord suddenly fell, prostrating themselves on the limestone floor, their heads tilted so far forward that a degree more would surely unfasten it from their spines.

“Behold our Glorious Shepherd, His Majestic Personage! Pharaoh Nekhtsethenes, Ruler of Two Lands, the Wise Serpent, Loved by Ra! Bow before the eyes of the Eternal Host, and the King who is Heaven’s Voice upon this base Earth! It is by his will that the Nile rises and our Two Lands is kept along the path of righteousness!” a man bellowed, his voice a roar as it echoed back from every corner of the grand court.

The crowd of the room was in raptures, chanting, “His will is absolute!”

 

  
The Empire’s courts were never this attended, what assembly could possibly require, by your blind count, upwards of fifty ministers?

Beneath the cacophony of the chanting crowd, the dysphoria in your mind drowned, forgetting in their ambush of the senses your greatest apprehensions. In spite of the raucous however, the tension in the room was pulled taut. Your breathing came to you in ragged gasps.

The same man continued, his voice subdued to an orotund address, “We have congregated today to inspect the Tributes that were promised to us by the Holy Empire of Delphini, as reparations for their discovered treachery against our people. Now is the time to decide if they are still worthy of our faith and goodwill! Here before us is the Imperial family's chosen representative, a man with direct blood ties to their Great Emperor! A sincere gesture, to be sure!”

Looks like Ramsay fooled them into believing he has political clout, you observed in thought.

By now you understood the speaker likely to be a close advisor, or the Vizier to Pharaoh himself.

“Royal Ambassador Lord Ramsay of House Delphini! Are you sufficiently prepared to receive your final judgment at the hands of His Majestic Personage and all his Eternal Host?!” the man you had dubbed the Vizier questioned.

“I am fully prepared to submit myself to the mercy of the honoured court and His Majestic Personage!” your bowing cousin declared, his usually haughty voice thinner than you were accustomed to hearing.

“Then in the name of the Voice of Heaven, I declare that the Trial shall begin! Firstly, allow the twenty artisans step forward!” the Vizier commanded.

As the artisans were interrogated on their skills, awaiting your turn, your breathing shallowed still. You couldn’t see, though you knew they would be offering an item of their own design, handcrafted to be inspected by the royal court. The general consensus was lukewarm, incoherent muttering and the susurrus of clothing a low drone in the otherwise silent hall. There was no outrage as of yet, no artisan dragged out; your cousin’s head still attached.

As the Vizier began to address the court once more, you understood that Pharaoh had accepted the offered talent. “Instead of the fifty women of marriageable age we demanded, their Great Emperor saw fit to offer his niece, the crown princess, whose incredible beauty we've been regaled tales of time and time again; who has only grown more lovely as she blossomed into womanhood! If her visage does not live up to the standards boasted of by the Holy Empire, we won't allow the insult to stand! We will make them regret trying to fool us! Now, let the one known as the Bride of the Moon step forward!”

You could feel your heart waver. Escorted by Ramsay, you could only see the rippling hem of your gown where the cloak parted, as you stepped forward, your whole form draped in your weight in precious gemstones woven together on fine silk.

“My dear girl,” the Vizier said, “we have been informed that you willingly took on this burden in place of those fifty women, and we commend you for your bravery! However! If we are unsatisfied, we are honour bound to retaliate for the slight. But do not worry, we prize women of good moral character! We will graciously allow you to live out the rest of your days in our magnificent kingdom regardless of the outcome!”

Be my guest to slight my appearance, you challenged in thought, strengthening your own faltering resolve.

“Captain Rhaegar, Lord Ramsay. I understand your protectiveness for Her Highness, but I'm afraid I must ask you both to step away from her so we can see her. I shall lift her hood — huh?”

Blind to the sights about you, you could only discern the wave of hushed whispers sweeping the court. There was movement ahead of you before words; heavy soles meeting limestone steps, approaching you.

“As she is being offered by their Great Emperor as my woman, I shall inspect her myself.” A chill grasped at your spine, crippling your whole being in a skin pickling shudder. So this was the voice of a tyrant, you mused. As imposing and thunderous as it was, it was unexpectedly youthful, and dare you say silken.

Slender olive fingers wrapped around the edges of your hood, peeling it back. Your cascading tresses exposed, your trembling eyes threatening to lift, you focused over the cobalt tunic gilded with some gold symbol which eluded you. Many things eluded you in that moment, whether for a lack of awareness of this new culture or due to the blood pounding your ears and rushing to your face, defying your command to maintain your form erect.

Those fingers planted under your chin, tilting you to meet his gaze; you would persist in maintaining them away. “Look at me,” he husked, his command at once frightening and compelling.

You obeyed, gaze flickering to meet the most magnificent shade of cerulean you had every beheld.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let us know your thoughts and as always, please aim your pitchforks at Est. And make this a habit every chapter. Take this advise and run with it, you’ll need it by the third chapter or so. Ha.


	2. Accidental Seduction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again! It’s been a while! So enjoy this 10,000 word monstrosity courtesy of ‘we bit off more than we could chew in our summary for this chapter.’ 
> 
> Thank you for all the lovely comments and interesting so far, and we sincerely hope this delivers :)

He held the entire night sky you had seen spanning the desert in those orbs, and it was so magnificent still that on nights those blue eyes looked up at the heavens, you were certain Artemis herself kept away her stars in shame.

The whole room drowned under a flood of hushed murmurs, the foreign tongue congregating into a low hum as if a swarm of bees entering your ears. Through the eyes of the scribes and poetry of the bards, this moment at your fingertips would be immortalized; read and re-read, travelling East through merchants trading silk, and West via warships.

Those blue eyes remained silent; expressionless.

You wouldn’t breathe as the slender fingers of the tyrant coiled around a stray wisp of your hair, tucking it behind your ear. His brows tightened, motioning to weave together before deciding against it.

“What is it that they call you?” He wanted to know. “My woman cannot be the bride of another god.”

The surge of fine needles which swept beneath your skin, you didn’t know if it was relief, or mortal fear, though it numbed your senses, and the sensation of your lips contorting to speak your own name felt unnatural — alien — and you could only imagine how it must have sounded.

  
This great conqueror before you was a thief, he stripped the air from your lungs and untaught you how to breathe; robbing you senseless of your wits. His head was not of a jackal and his face was not in the least bit grotesque. He was arresting, utterly; in every sense of the definition, striking. His image once imprinted in one’s mind, you imagined impossible to forget in a lifetime, so why did all those men on your travels describe him with such gross inaccuracy?

Though you had no interest in men; and he did not possess the slightest intrigue in you. You were acceptable; merely tolerable.

His eyes strayed to see past you but yours were an arrow which had impaled its target; they wouldn’t distract, daring to stare at the great emperor, stubborn against weak persuasion. What was this sudden betrayal?

If you were blind folded in that moment and asked to describe the room you stood in, you would be at a loss. The walls were polished limestone was the only familiarity you would conjure. You would not recognize one face of the foreign court.

What had you expected to find? Only gruesome visions of jackals with torn flesh between its teeth would manifest.

Observing the misplaced longing stewing in your eyes he arrested your gaze once more. "You look like you want to say something," said Pharaoh Nekhtsethenes. "Speak your mind. I am listening."

In a word, you were petrified. The words you had practiced to address him eluded you, burning and parching your throat. The wrong words and he would call for your head. You would say nothing. Could he behead you for your silence?

“Within my domain, all desires are possible. You need but ask,” he husked, stepping forward, his head tilted an indiscernible degree to the side as if to better appraise you. You could feel his breath break in waves against your face; his breaths soft whips of air against the bridge of your nose. His face drew closer. Your skin began to simmer and boil over bone turning to liquid. This was mortal fear. You couldn’t read those indicolite.

Behind your deafened ears, the court grew louder; astonishment blossoming on the Vizier’s face over subtle indignation.

“May I ask for anything...Your Majesty?”

“Anything.”

Like a fish out of water, your lips parted then closed, then once more. “A bath,” you entreated. “If it is not too much of an imposition.”

Had your voice not manifested beyond your lips as you had imagined? He remained stone still for a long moment.

You couldn’t remember when your eyes had fallen, overwhelmed by the weight of those dark blue orbs, or that they even had, until a strong finger resting under your chin raised you to meet them once more.

“A bath?” There was unrestrained amusement colouring the baritone drone of voice.

“Yes.”

“Is that all? You need but ask if there is something else weighing your mind,” he reminded.

“It is Your Majesty, only a bath.”

“Very well.”

“Your grace is immeasurable,” you breathed, head fallen forward.

The tyrant pulled away; the reluctance in his retreat eluding you.

“The Bride of the Moon is truly a sight to behold! I deeply apologize to you, young lady, for whatever words I have spoken that may have slighted you! Not a single man on this Earth could possibly deny your lovely visage!” the Vizier announced, struggling to find his voice.

“Cousin! You truly are a goddess of good fortune,” Ramsay praised, his composure compromised by the sudden seepage of relief.

The hum of the crowd ascended to an unruly buzz, as if the heart of a broken hive.

“A goddess, he said!” a courtier’s voice rang above the commotion. “His Majestic Personage has won our kingdom a goddess who was betrothed to a different god!”

The wild frenzy of the crowd conquered the space, mounting to a fever pitch.

“Silence!” Pharaoh Nekhtsethenes’s voice carried as if a golden fork of thunder forged in the eye of Zeus himself, ripping through every voice and whisper, deadening the chaos. The silence was so profound, the quiet flow of the Nile stretching behind the golden throne perched upon the towering dais could be heard. Past the two identical jackal statues standing guard on either side of the dais and swaying silk banners dyed a Celeste blue suspended from the tall ceiling, you could even hear the wind wrapping quietly like silken scarves around the short reeds on the river bank.

Even from the ministers or their scribes seated on the upper balcony wrapping the throne chamber, not a hum would sound.

His will was absolute.

With eyes of blue diamond Pharaoh bored into the flustered expression of his Vizier; the motion animating him to speak, “The Tribute Inspection has ended, and Royal Ambassador Lord Ramsay Delphini is hereby released from the Trial of His Majestic Personage and his Eternal Host! He and his traveling party are now official guests to our glorious city, and all demands made of the Holy Empire of Delphini for reparations have been paid in full! This day shall be remembered as the day our two nations have resolved their conflicts and will step forward together anew!”

As you were ushered away, your eyes caught the glint of the carefully laid gemstones embedded into the eyes of the intricate carvings of birds of prey, scorpions, and cobras etched into the limestone walls surrounding all but one dimension of the courtroom; the wall absent behind his throne.

It was truly magnificent; it’s decadence unimaginable. For once you felt the stories relayed to you by Mahaado with such reverence and enthusiasm for this great empire had not done justice in capturing all its wonder, but then you were reminded, a mere merchant could never hope to have witnessed such splendour as the painstaking intricacy sculpted into the walls of the divine ruler’s court room.

There was a tinge of remorse; he would have revelled in seeing something so exquisite, he would only have possessed the luxury to have heard tales of.

...

Rugged limestone carved to form narrow corridors; their faces blemished with fine craters they stretched into some unknown depth led by steps cut from the very same stone burnished to a smooth finish. Had it not been for the ivory spillage of dusty air in the distance, you would have been certain that you had displeased Pharaoh and were being escorted in an unconventional procession of some form, by seven ladies in waiting, to the palace dungeons. To be honest, you held no conviction to contradict the possibility either.

The train of handmaidens curved through the obscurely lit underground passageway and you followed; the two on your heel your shadow.

The passage widened and the roof raised, for a moment its mouth opening to a cavern bathed by pillars of sunlight stealing through the earth above; the cavity supported by rocky columns sculpted by the hand of nature herself. The shallow well of rough cut stairs leading further down juxtaposed the sawtoothed formations of calcium hanging like earth’s chandeliers from the roof, and the harsh walls absent of human touch. The steps spanned widely across the chamber, turning halfway before continuing their descent.

At their foot you were presented the clearest pool of azure blue, the gleam of the crystal waters reflecting on every ivory-stoned wall, and tall roof tarnished by deposits of calcium. The soft glow of daylight leaking from some crevice and fissure you couldn’t see, illuminated the bathing chamber.

The artisans had designed a marvellous contraption you were advised, to trap the dirt and loose rocks flowing down from the life giving Nile, out of the water. A porous sieve filtering the water you comprehended, from the primitive descriptions of the handmaidens.

Your heavy cloak and gown — variations of which had come to feel as if a second skin in the desert — were shed as you climbed the limestone steps into the fresh water pool filling deeply the greater part of the cavern. You were warned not to tread too far, as the inclination of the pool floor deepened the further you ventured.

A sigh of contentment escaped your lips at the gentle kiss of the cold water on your hot skin lathered with old dirt; your voice echoing. The water silently grasped at every inch of your bare skin as you immersed yourself, your shoulders left above prickling at the silken blow of air escaping into the hollow room from an unknown port above.

Your head fell back to rest against an edge as nimble fingers undid knotted muscles between the blades of your shoulders and neck, another handmaiden grazing the blades of a body razor over your limbs lathered with some scented herbal soap, peeling back what felt to be inches of desert mud.

Your limbs cleansed in a concoction of neem and aloe; your hair soaked in lotus, from your reflection in the rippling pool, you resembled less of a desert rat; though a bath wasn’t a miracle, it couldn’t hope to erase months of blemishes the sun had left as a memento of your travels on your skin. It was a wonder to you that Pharaoh had not averted his gaze the moment he had drawn back your hood back.

From the distance in the cavern, purposeful footsteps echoed. They paused feet behind you, and with them stopped the fingers of the handmaid running a fine toothed comb through your wet tresses. From your peripheral you witnessed the handmaidens fallen to their knees, their arms splayed out before them on the floor. Shifting your eyes over your left shoulder, the shadow of a tall figure eclipsed your vision. A noose of asphyxiation wrapped your neck like a blue scarf.

In your haste you entreated him to not approach you. Arms crossing your bare chest, with his next step your voice raised. A hushed swell of gasps bled into the silence of the space. The footsteps halted.

Intrigue and amusement coloured the Pharaoh’s for a second time that afternoon, though you would not see it. The expression perhaps would have eluded you still even had you seen it. He could only see the ebony ripple of locks plastered over your back.

He parted his lips to speak, but the day was intent on mounting your transgressions. “I do not mean to offend you, Your Majesty,” you blurted interrupting, “but please, please I beg of you to avert your gaze while I’m in such an indecent state to receive your audience.”

“Even though I’ve sought you personally to extend an invitation to share a meal with me?”

“I beg your forgiveness.”

“Very well,” his voice rang clear in the grotto after a moment of consideration. “And what of my invitation?”

“I would be honoured.”

“Your cousin and Captain will be present, as well as a foreign prince and his guests. The White Court councilmen will also be in attendance."

“I see.”

You heard the scrape of his sole against the limestone floor as he turned, before coming to an abrupt yet decisive halt.

“Is the bath...to your liking?” he inquired, sparing a glance out of the corner of his eye; arms held behind his back.

“...It is, Your Majesty.”

“I would hope so,” he said, “It is the finest bathing chamber in Sepfuruna.”

With those words as a parting remark, his footsteps continued to fade into the distance. It was the torrid heat welling in your chest which reminded you to breath again in his absence.

And in his absence your mind toiled, unable to fathom the curious words he had left. Would the finest bathing chamber not belong to the ruler of Khemet?

...

The banquet hall bordered the silent Nile; limestone pillars splendidly carved with Ibises in flight, blossoms of lotus dyed lapis and butterflies in the reeds marked vermillion, supported a low stone ceiling. A grove of ebony shaded the living quarters of the Pharaoh across the river channel, while a nursery of pine lined this side of the bank, the fine needles rustling in the breeze. The gliding wind coiling the reeds and papyrus growing on the river bank weaved through the open hall, cooling the heated politics threatening hostility over the table richly decorated with delicacies.

Indeed the Pharaoh had gone to great lengths to impress his guests, or perhaps a particular guest, the table laden heavily with freshly caught perch and tilapia, their centres swollen with bitter greens and seasoned roe, roasts of lamb and tender sliced beef, fresh breads, platters of figs filled with nuts, cakes sweetened with artisan honey, and at its centre a nut and fruit stuffed golden fowl prettily dressed in mushrooms and herbs not found in this part of the desert.

Seated at the head of the long table, Pharaoh invited you to the seat immediately to his right. Without meeting his eyes you accepted, his sapphire gaze weighing heavily over yours sinking lower and lower into your palms clasped over your lap.

The foreign prince his majesty was receiving, accompanied by a young banner man had hastily scrambled for your seat to your right, sparing no regard for Ramsay, who was left the seat to Captain Rhegar’s right seated across the table from you, to the left of Pharaoh.

"Prince Charmles," Ramsay said with a very polite bow of his head as he assumed his seat. "This is our first meeting, I believe. The honour is mine."

The older royal donning in the sickly lemon tunic squinted suspiciously. "Is it now? I've little time for pleasantries, Lord Ramsay. Tell me, why are you here? Is your Great Emperor too proud to stand before the Ruler of Two Lands himself? And where is the assurance that you island bumpkins won't target my father's ships next season?"

"Prince Charmles," appealed one of the White Court councilmen reproachfully, "you forget yourself. Both you and Lord Ramsay are here at His Majesty's invitation. Lord Ramsay has passed the inspection, and no more will be spoken of past grievances."

Your eyes inadvertently lifted, flickering again as if a thrown dagger to its target, honing into deep indicolite distracted from the present conversation — unbeknownst to you enthralled by your quiet presence, and mesmerized by every contour of your turned profile. They did not waver or avert as they arrested your captivated gaze in silence; only his lips twitching as if to curl into a smirk when he knew you too could not look away.

"Did I ask you?” the pink and portly prince erupted into a string of full-mouthed sputtering, the wine sloshing about his mouth escaping his lips in sprays. “Do I look stupid? I'll hear no instructions from you."

"This is no way to speak in front of your host and allies, my prince," one of the prince's companions reproved.

Those indicolite eyes still held your gaze. He filled your ruby and emerald embedded goblet to the brim; lifting his own in toast, his eyebrow arching with some elusive insinuation as he motioned for you to drink. You wouldn’t realize you were breathing in shallow gasps.

Beside you, "Now my lessers presume to teach me courtesy," groaned Charmles. It has numbed in your ears to a low drone in the background. "I'll speak any way I like, damn you. I've been a guest to three other kings in my life, and queens as well, do you think I require lessons from the likes of you? Your mother was milking goats the first time I gave her my seed." He dismissed the bannerman flushing a conspicuous scarlet, with a flick of his fingers.

"Prince Charmles. You must stop this," begged another White Court minister, glancing out of the corner of his eye at his lord Pharaoh in fear.

A stream of practiced servants attended the guests, slicing into legs of mutton and roasted pork shoulders with gemstone hilted knives, while serving salads of fresh leeks and cucumber tossed in herb butters with golden prongs.

“Is the fare not to your liking?” Pharaoh husked leaning forward, observing your plate sparsely covered with a thin layer of bitter green salad. Out competing the rotund prince for a morsel of rosemary garnished chicken or fragrant rice — or anything within your reach for that matter — had not how you had envisioned meeting your end, so you had abstained.

“How could it not be,” you refuted quietly, eyes blurring against the golden embroidery of your gown as you formed your words with the utmost discretion, “when you’ve honoured us with such an elaborate feast. My party and I are undeserving of such consideration. Your grace is truly immeasurable.”

“Is there something you favour?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Of the selection,” he elaborated.

“I ask again, Lord Ramsay. Why are you here instead of your Great Emperor?" Charmles raised his voice in demand, spilling some wine on the table in his haste to drink.

“Need I repeat myself?” Pharaoh questioned; the irritation and impatience you had expected in his tone absent. Turned in his seat towards you, he was affording you his undivided attention.

"My lord uncle is currently overseeing the army assignment roster. He wishes to muster a naval force, to protect the sea routes of Genova." Ramsay was showing admirable restraint in the face of the miserable swine, though polite speech and tone pulled thin and taut betrayed his irritation.

“No,” you quickly responded to Pharaoh, your quiet voice restrained to a whisper, wishing not to interrupt the raucous conversation beside you, a soothing, fine tuned instrument to the young king. “Forgive me for I’m unfamiliar with the delicacies of the local cuisine and couldn’t say with any conviction.”

"To hunt the pirates, yes?" Charmles’ sniggering punctuated your sentence. "Didn't expect that, did you? I'm not unaware of what happens to the nations that are less impressive than mine. I know that those dreadful buccaneers have your Holy Empire dead to rights."

“Do you enjoy meat?”

“Yes, Your Majesty." Your head still bowed low.

“Lift your head. I would prefer it if you look at me when I’m speaking to you.”

Lifting your eyes, you apologized.

“And you need not apologize each time.”

“My apologies — ” His lips curled deeper as you interrupted yourself.

With a strident voice which silenced the whole table, he called for a servant. “Serve the crown princess the breast of the golden fowl.”

Your eyebrows climbing your forehead, your arm reached in reflex for his, fingers apprehending his wrist. “Your Majesty! I couldn’t possibly.”

Blue eyes fell to appraise your gentle grip over his wrist, before they raised to you, amusement swelling across his features. “I insist.”

Whilst the table watched on as if you two were raised on a stage, if they had any pressing remarks itching their throats, under the imposing glare of the bloodless king none would voice them, returning to their conversations; though their eyes continued to stray for a lapsing moment.

He wouldn’t motion for you to unwrap you fingers from around his wrist, and for a few long moment as you were served the cut he had request from the golden fowl, you held onto him, the grave offence of laying a hand on the divine form of the son of Ra escaping you.

As the servant stepped back; her head tucked so far forward her chin met her chest, your eyes darted in discomfort, at a loss for how to reciprocate, or in the very least show appreciation for his gracious gesture.

“Do you plan to hold on to me for the duration of the meal?” he taunted in inquiry before you could form another thought.

With a sharp gasp, you withdrew your fingers, your whole body recoiling with the motion. “I’ve committed a sin worthy of death,” you chanted, your entire form hunching forward.

“I hardly see how my woman touching me is a sin worthy of execution,” he husked with perplexing nonchalance, slipping a stuffed date between his up-turned lips.

You knew not how to accept those words as he served you a chop of the herb rack of lamb, finely charred around the edges. You assumed this a gesture of amity.

  
Ramsay was smiling. It was not a pleasant smile. "I am surprised to hear that your prized silvaliers have returned to Ashenvale, safe and sound, and so very far from your proud ancestral lands. Was His Imperial Majesty of Vasusena truly formidable? Was his armour as invincible as they claim?"

"Hmph. I recalled my silvaliers from those lands, yes I did, must you state the obvious? It was my intent to march as soon as all my strength was assembled. Well, to send my elite bannermen. I am well past marching myself." Chamles looked around for likely confirmation and pointed to his other companion, a tall and stooped man of fifty years. "Tell him, Wilheim. Tell him that was my intent."

"It was, Lord Ramsay," said the bannerman named Wilheim. "On my honour."

"Is it my fault that my father's men lost their battle against Emperor Karna before I could march to their position?" Charmles leaned back against the cushions of his chair and scowled defensively. "I am told that the Hero of Charity went through those old veterans like an axe through ripe cheese. Why should my boys hurry to die as well? I exercised caution and retreated, yes, but there will come a time I and mine shall take back those lands."

"Emperor Karna is known as a hero because he is feared and idolized by many men."

"Am I to be included amongst their number?" Charmles said with a snort. "Oh, what a great man that one is. Red Emperor Karna with his divinity this and gold that. I'll wager you, he eats too many beans, he breaks wind just like me, but you'll never hear him admit it, oh no. What's that upstart got to be so puffed up about anyway? Besides his wife's cunt and his red cape, I could match him myself! What reason have I to fight such a pathetic young king at this juncture?"

Teetering on the edge of polite conversation, "Reason?" Ramsay echoed to the banquet hall at large as he struggled to control his revulsion at the man. "Reason. To punish his arrogance, perhaps? He spoke against you and your brothers, when that marriage alliance with his wife's cousin was proposed was it not? Emperor Karna, no more than a boy as you claimed, and he spat upon you and yours. An Ashenvale prince wasn't good enough for a Vasusena princess, he might as well have said. And what of the good men that died like animals in the trenches, fighting for your cause? Your half brother who led the charge, the young Prince Godfrey? How did he die, pray tell? Is it known?"

"In battle, of course. The fool pillow-biter charged headlong with all his might, and damn well broke himself against Karna's signature spear. Half a hundred silvaliers and lords of Ashenvale are now hostages at the mercy of the Red Emperor due to his recklessness. This war has been lost completely, and many of the unwashed masses refuse to see reason."

"Those brave men have been lost because of your cowardice," Ramsay sneered, all pretences of polite small talk discarded.

You didn’t care for politics until the climate whetted to become a knife in your throat or for feuding warlords until the conflict presented itself on your doorstep, so you couldn’t make much sense of the dialogue being exchanged between your pompous cousin’s wounded pride and the insolent prince.

Though admittedly, this was only partly the reason, the better of it being the dedicated, unbroken attention of the tyrant you had permanently come under the scrutiny of. He inquired after your likes and dislikes on what you had been served under his command; proceeding to quietly surveil you as if a prized bird in a gilded cage. The task of refilling your goblet he had taken upon himself.

"I tire of this conversation. Be grateful for Pharaoh Nekhtsethenes' mercy, Lord Ramsay. And pray that it yet holds true," Charmles sneered, once more drawing ire from his own companions and the White Court councilmen for speaking of Pharaoh so flippantly.

Ramsay's equally sharp response made Captain Rhaegar roll his eyes. "Careful, Prince Charmles. You're toeing the line quite close to criticism, and I'm quite the sensitive fellow.”

It was here that the conversation took an unsavoury turn for you personally, the audacious prince twice your age bestowing you his unwelcome attention; undiscouraged by — though perhaps he did not notice — the predatory, steel blue gaze of the host as he undressed you with beady eyes, brazenly resting them over your full bosom well concealed under your raised neckline.

"You are quite fortunate my dear girl," Charmles drawled, reaching to refill your goblet without your permission.

You merely watched with a sour twist of your lips at the dull gold goblet filled to the brim, garnet spilling in streams over the bowl’s edge.

Lithe fingers wrapped themselves around the stem of your goblet, scraping the base pointedly across the wooden table. The blue-eyed king twisted the stem between his fingers as he brought it to his lips, finding exactly where the red of yours had stained the rim.

The table held its breath; as did you, before the laboriously breathing companion to your left insisted on repossession your attention with no concern for the strained ambience. “Quite fortunate indeed.”

Ripping your eyes away from your striking host you queried, hoping with earnest the fat swine collapse with a blocked artery before he could summon the necessary wit to reply. "How so, Your Grace?"

"In many ways, I should think. You are fortunate, that Pharaoh Nekhtsethenes was prevailed upon to see reason. You are fortunate, that your cousin is not a total fool. And you are quite fortunate, to have the chance to meet me, the First Prince of Ashenvale."

"You explain it well, Your Grace."

"Please," he demurred. "Do call me Charmles, my sweet."

An awkward pause followed, before he turned away again and looked to the wine, and then back to you.

"You perplex me, my lady."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You perplex me," Charmles repeated. "I've heard that you were promised to some godling or another. Yet you willingly offer yourself to my good friend and compatriot, Pharaoh Nekhtsethenes. Were you not afraid for your life? He cares only for battle and glory against his nemesis the Hero of Charity, Emperor Karna, and not once has he spared any thought to the pleasures of a woman's touch. Not even a — ” and he insisted on stressing his next words with a salacious lick of his lips — “ _prime_ female specimen such as yourself would hold his attention."

Is this arrogant prince lacking any sense of self-preservation, many wondered, to be able to make such a flagrant statement in front of the Ruler of Two Lands himself.

Curiously, Pharaoh himself remained impassive, watching the proceedings with his unblinking, unreadable blue eyes; his ambiguous expression betraying nothing of his thoughts. Even more curious, the White Court councilmen had begun exchanging knowing looks contorted with grim expression.

Meanwhile, Charmles had not stopped waxing poetry about your body parts, his clammy palm caressing the length of your exposed upper arm. “Your dewy mouth,” he recited, “your swan-like neck, your milky skin, your enchanting bosom inviting..."

"You think too well of me, Your Grace," you forced yourself to say in a desperate bid to interrupt his debasing soliloquy.

"I should think not," the over-plump swine said with a chuckle. "Indeed, in these past few minutes I have been thinking quite a great deal of you."

You could not bring yourself to imagine what exactly he thought of you, though that would not stop the bile from rising; unconsciously wrapping your fingers over the exposed skin of your arms, wishing for fabric to materialize in place of your fingers.

"My sweet, would you care to join my compatriots and I during tonight's festivities?" Charmles leaned towards you, reaching for your hand.

You had no means of rejecting his advances without severely offending him and instigating international hostility, for it was entirely within his right as a man and a noble to take your hand in his while making a sincere entreaty. That he was a pathetic excuse for a human being — or rather a pig in human costume would not be spared any consideration.

This position of despair was only furthered by you having no tangible power in Sepfuruna. If this despicable swine in guise of royalty had tried to approach you in the Holy Empire it would have been within your rights to have him catapulted into the sea. In this strange foreign city however, your status was no higher than that of your handmaidens and neither Ramsay or Rhaegar could intervene on your behalf. You were a ward; mere property and only your keeper, Pharaoh Nekhtsethenes himself, could elect himself to your defence.

There was reluctance to your gaze as it sought Pharaoh, while the prince’s fleshy palm sought to rest on your thigh, and before anyone, even Pharaoh could intervene, years of being raised the first in line to the throne overwhelmed selfless diplomacy. “Don’t touch me.” You were used to being obeyed.

Ramsay and Rhaegar straightened in their seats at your scathing tone; it was not one you often employed, polite request preceding absolute command.

In the Holy Empire, your will was absolute, often superseding the Great Emperor himself.

“Please,” you attempted in a softer tone to the nonplussed noble. “I am quite sensitive and do not like being touched. I ask that Your Grace respect that.”

A scornful laugh scraping the lowest registers you’ve ever heard a man produce tore through the dining hall, Pharaoh was reduced to raptures. “Indeed,” he drawled, “why would such a fine specimen as herself desire the attention of such a dull variety of man as yourself, if I may title you a man that is. Why especially when there’s a much better receptacle for her affection she could be expending her energies upon?”

In the resulting shadow which the thinly veiled threat marking territory cast over the table — you understood well here that Pharaoh was incredibly possessive of everything within his realm, even things which only consumed a margin of his interest at a moment of extensive boredom, such as yourself — you liberated your captured hand from the obnoxious royal’s grip, rubbing the offended appendage in silence.

Pharaoh excused himself from the table shortly after and the ominous pall of tension which lingered gradually faded as rambunctious conversation reached a fever pitch once again. In the absence of his watchful eye, your impertinent admirer basked in the liberty of what he assumed was your state of being left unattended and by extension, defenceless to his admiration.

You had no tolerance for your body parts being dissected in horrific, objectifying poetry as if the cuts of a priced cow, so you too excused yourself, intent on retiring to your room for the remainder of the afternoon.

Navigating yourself through the maze of pillars spiralling in every direction through connecting corridors of the palace, you had taken steps past the audience chamber, followed by a sharp left as you retraced your steps to your quarters, when you grew aware of the heavy footsteps trailing you.

You turned to damp flesh wrapping your wrist. “You walk as if you’re in a terrible rush my sweet,” the adenoidal braying of Charmles hailed you; his acidic breath reminiscent of rotting flesh which curled in toxic puffs nauseating your senses as he stood a hairbreadth away. “Do wait for me, I believe we are going in the same direction.”

“No I don’t believe we are,” you corrected, repressing the reflex to gag. “Please do release this — ” you motioned with your eyes to your apprehended wrist “— and speak.”

“Don’t like being touched eh?” he continued, sparing no consideration for your words. You stepped back in a bid to escape him if even an additional inch. He mirrored your motion; the stone wall an obstacle against your back in your retreat. “Perhaps you’ve never been touched in the right places...by the right man...mmm?”

Your stomach turned twice over. The nausea burned into a ringing migraine threatening to split your skull in two halves.

“I’m grateful for your lordship’s interest in me,” you muttered cowering, “but I’ll accept just the thought. Please, release this so I may be on my way.”

“Retiring to your chambers already?” You offered an ambiguous nod. “Is it not a little too early for a young woman to be — are you inviting me you coy thing?” His lips stretched to a lecherous grin.

“I assure you, Your Grace, that was not my intention.”

Releasing his grip on your wrist he leaned closer, his sour breath breaking in your ear. “There’s no need to be so demure my sweet lamb, we can — ”

“Prince!” a young voice addressed from the distance, before hasty footsteps met dusty limestone. “Please, you must not touch the woman promised to Pharaoh Nekhtsethenes so carelessly,” the young bannerman who has been seated to his left beseeched in a hush. “If he were to see this— ”

“If who was to see what?” the harsh voice of Pharaoh himself resounded from turn of the passage, marching to your side. “Perhaps I was too ambiguous in stating my intentions when I cautioned you against pursuing her.” His voice assaulted every surface it scraped. “So let me reiterate myself for you who was too slow to comprehend. I will not tolerate on your part Charmles any more advances towards the crown princess. She has after all been offered to my kingdom as my woman. Or is it within the habits of your nation to covet what is not yours?”

“Your words are harsh Pharaoh!” the insulted prince cried.

“Intentionally so.”

Those blue orbs of steel would not waver. With an involuntary bow forced upon him by his bannerman, acknowledging those words, the prince with a defiant snort, following contrived pleasantries waddled down the opposite hallway.

“My apologies that you were left vulnerable to such treatment in my court,” Pharaoh extended. “Where are your handmaidens?”

“In my quarters, though I hardly think he would have been so easily discouraged.”

“Likely not,” he agreed. Pausing for a moment to consider. “Were you heading to your quarters?”

“Yes.”

“Allow me to escort you,” he offered, “to ensure there are no other incidents.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“I wouldn’t have offered if it was,” he gruffly contradicted, briskly setting off in the direction. You couldn’t place what it was exactly about his voice which always brushed your spine with a sweep of tingles.

The short walk to your chambers was marked with silence. He couldn’t seem to summon enough curiosity towards you to be inquisitive. He would not even spare a glance, maintaining a thousand yard stare ahead. As you had suspected, the attentive conversation you had shared with him had spurred from a moment of boredom. It would be the exception, not the rule.

His well-built shoulders held taut upon his wiry form, you needed three steps for every one of his, and you still fell half a step short. His pace was leisurely he insisted, looking over his shoulder as your feet under the heavy gown fought to keep step. You assumed his was an offer of polite obligation, and spending a moment longer than necessary in your company would be a tiring nuisance. You supposed still, that you should rejoice he tolerated your company.

“Will you be present for the celebrations this evening — that is, I imagine you’re tired from your travels, will your condition allow it?” he inquired as he saw you to your door.  
“I...I suppose prince Charmles will be there.”

“Yes, and so will I.”

With a delicate curl of your lip, you nodded. “Until this evening then.”

With narrowed eyes, he looked at you as if were a strange exhibit needing memorization, before he offered a languid grunt in response. At a meandering pace he traipsed the length of the open corridor, fading under the shade of the heavy fruit and ebony trees lining the river channel at the passage’s end.

You followed after him a short way in a daze, outstretched fingers grazing the engraved pillars blossoming into carved lotuses, separating the corridor from the Nile; gazing at his receding form until he crossed the stone bridge raised out of the channel, returning to duties more important in the palace than entertaining a barely tolerable woman.

...

You watched moonlight float on the black Nile through the curtains lifting in the gentle wind.

“What did you make of the Tyrant of the Black Lands?” Irene, the last of the Holy Empire’s handmaids who you had been spared inquired in a whisper, running an ivory comb over your hair as you sat before a silver mirror.

“Watch how you address him,” you chastised, your defence of him only marginally surprising; this was after all his realm and it went without saying the repercussions that would be met for even a word antagonizing him.

“What was he like?” Her curiosity remained unquenched.

“Taciturn,” you told her, “but surprisingly quaint. His didn’t seem like the face of death. I find this place quite tolerable, don’t you?”

“While I will serve you without defecting, I think it would be wise for Your Highness to keep your guard,” was her response. “First impressions are often deceiving.”

“While some suspicion is prudent, too much, and you’re playing yourself,” you advised in retort, shedding your dressing robe as you stood on a raised podium, the desert breeze wrapping your exposed form before the hand embroidered dress your servants slipped over your lithe limbs did. Cascading black satin tossed with gemstones like scattered gold stardust on a Stygian sky graced your form, weaving across your skirt in floral motifs; an antiquated opal diadem woven into your hair.

Ramsay met you at the door of your chamber.

“Pleasant evening cousin,” he said, never missing the opportunity to remind you of the unfortunate relation, as if it needed to be legitimized any more than it already was. Perhaps he was hoping for you to some day acknowledge it. He would be waiting a very long time. “I wondered if you would be joining, I was told you wished to rest.”

“That was following lunch Ramsay, it’s now evening. I’m plenty rested, do try to keep up,” you sighed, brushing past him into the corridor.

“I wanted to commend you cousin.” Perhaps you should start keeping tally for each instance he insisted on asserting the association; you rolled your eyes. He jogged to keep pace as you took brisk steps away. “I wanted to commend you for your impressive seduction of him earlier... you had him eating out of the palm of your hand,” Ramsay panted.

“I can’t imagine why you think it appropriate to commend me for such a thing,” you dismissed, repulsed that he would even find such a sight attractive — that he was referring to your exchange with Pharaoh escaping you.

It would seem misunderstandings would be the theme of the night.

...

Amongst the harp weaving and tambourine playing musicians, the exotic performers dancing to the beat of a drum, and foreign dignitaries swarming the indoor banquet hall, the man your eyes sought was absent. Perhaps you would not even comprehend that you were searching for him, though in truth, the singular reason you had ever considered attending this operetta had been at his invitation.

From your peripheral you registered a certain prince announcing his presence and you suddenly regretted, in all your years experimenting with the many avenues of alchemy, never concocting a method for vanishing into thin air.

Marching to you he bade you a good evening, thrusting a platter of savoury cheese stuffed figs, a chop of roasted oxen and honey drizzled bread he had swiped off the elaborate buffet.

“Princess you look ravenous,” Charmles claimed, as if he had done you a great service.

“I hope you mean ravishing,” you contested.

“No my lovely lamb,” he jabbered. “I mean ravenous, you look starved, and I don’t want you fainting from exhaustion my sweet, our night is still young and we have much we could do, though ravishing — that you certainly are.” You wondered from his slurring speech if he had even for a moment stopped drowning himself in aged wines since lunch.

He extended a hand for you, and before you could flinch, an unforgiving grip crushed the wandering fingers suspended in mid air. The otherwise tempting platter was stripped from you; a tight hand lacing yours whisking you from the confines of the airless room boiling up — though no one else seemed to notice.

Fleetingly you had forgotten what breathing cold air felt like.

“I was beginning to think Your Majesty would not come,” you inadvertently declared. The transient mortification at having voiced an intimate thought you had not wholly admitted to even yourself faded into disconcerted agitation when he would only offer his silence; facing you with his tautly held, broad back roped with muscle under his obsidian tunic, drawing you further into a labyrinth of hallways obscurely lit with oil lamps. “Where are you taking me?” you begged, panic eclipsing foolish relief. You grappled his hold fruitlessly; his fingers were shackles of steel, much like his eyes. You would believe it if you were told his whole form was sculpted from immovable steel. “Answer me,” you implored. “Pharaoh Nechy... Nebsy... Nethsix... Pharaoh Neck Sit The Knees!”

He groaned. “Seto.”

“What?”

“My name,” he sighed, “it’s Seto.”

Pausing before a seemingly unremarkable spot on the wall, he reached with ease for the blackened handle of the flickering oil lamp secured to the wall. At his wrench, the metal appendage yielded, leaning forward. Tremors ripped across the solid surface, a portion sliding back, before gliding behind the stretch of wall to the left, revealing a patch of darkness.

Your arm still in his clutched attempted to recoil, earning you an irascible glare over his shoulder.

“Your Majesty,” you husked, fear thick in your voice, “have I offended you somehow?”

“What would give you that impression?”

“I just — I — ” your eyes welling with terror shifted to gaze into the depthless darkness “— are you not —”

“Taking you to the dungeons?” he chortled.

“Yes,” You squeaked.

“Is that what they say about me?” he queried, voice tinged with intrigue. “They’re not wrong.” That did nothing to comfort your racing imagination. “Though I have no thoughts of disposing you to such a fate. I didn’t believe I needed a reason to be in your company.”

And indeed he did not.

“Though if you must know,” he told you. Blindly reaching into the darkness he produced an unlit torch. “I wished to dine with you, away from the festivities.” Igniting it with the flames of the oil lamp, he tugged you forward to his side, before inviting you to walk behind him; his complexion a warm honey against the amber flames trembling in the dark passage which once again sealed behind you; the wall concealing the Pharaoh’s secret.  
  
“You should be honoured,” he rasped, “you’re the only outsider — the only person in fact, besides my Vizier and the men who built it, to be aware of the existence of these hallways.”

“Hallways?” you questioned. “You mean to tell me there’s more than one?”

“These passages run the course of the entire palace below ground,” he advised. “Watch your step.” He guided you by the waist as the two of you descended a short flight of stairs.

“I’m honoured that Your Majesty has entrusted me with such a secret.”

“I believe,” he growled, his brilliant profile contorting under the glimmer of the fire, “I told you to address me by my name.”

 _Seto_ , you mused in thought; a name which once grazes the palate would be impossible to unlearn, much like his appearance. And yet it was too personal still; too intimate to call a king who would never see you as a woman — as his woman yes, but that was a euphemistic title you felt, for a ward in his possession.

You emerged to a magnificent view of the dark Nile punctuated by limestone columns, from a wall illuminated with more oil lamps casting shadows of orange. Beyond the channel spread the wing of the palace you had been in, in the distance their windows and doorways glittering gold, the uproar of festivities disturbing the quiet night as it carried in the wind.

He led you around the corridor’s turn, the Nile curving around his chambers. Here the passage of pillars opened up to a porch extending into the Nile; the stone platform a raised stage above the blooming lotuses harvesting the light of the full moon, the fragrance of the prized blossoms woven into the air. Above you the night sky stretched infinitely strewn with stars like fine dust; their spotlight only obscured by the curving fruit trees lining the adjoining corridor you had walked; pouring forth over the roof their harvest of ripe figs and some scarlet orbs you had been advised were called pomegranates; as if to boast and compete with the universe’s canvas.

Across the platform edge, a rug woven from brilliant shades of blue was spread, a few cushions scattered across.

“I don’t care for boisterous displays of vain self-indulge,” Pharaoh said, ascending the shallow steps back up to the corridor. Before the grand double doors leading to his personal chambers, from the elaborately carved wooden server, he retrieved two copper platters of fruit; a tall clay decanter balanced on one. “Besides, my presence would uselessly cause unnecessary formalities and tension.”

“I always find the quiet solitude much more appealing myself,” you agreed nonchalantly, eyes returning to the calm tide washing up to the stone peninsula. If your declaration had surprised him, he did well in concealing it.

“Sit.” It was an order. You swept your legs to the side as you sat beside him; Pharaoh reclined against two cushions, peeling an apple with a knife which caught the glint of the moon on its blade. “You needn’t be so formal around me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The way you’re sitting,” he elaborated, “you’re twisting your legs unnaturally to hold yourself in that position are you not?”

You spared him a long glance before reaching for a cushion to lean against. He appeared unbothered by your attention and quite at ease in your presence as he sliced the fruit. One by one, he set down the uniform slices of apple and pears, ocean blue eyes mirroring in the blade of his knife occupied completely by the task, or so you believed; unaware that in the whetted blade he saw your reflection, the way you stole glances of his.

You didn’t recognize many of the strangely shaped fruits spread before you in varying shades of chartreuse, red and yellow; the slices he had carved opening to reveal tart orange, marigold, and scarlet inside. You reached for a slice of red apple, something familiar. The crisp flesh crunched, quenching your parched palate. Quietly observing this, he began to peel another apple.

When you would reach for nothing else, “Is nothing else to your liking?” he queried, invisible concern etching fine lines between his brows.

“I’m not very familiar...much of this I haven’t even seen in books.”

“Never seen a melon?” he inquired incredulously. You shook your head. Splitting open a flaxen orb the size of a leather ball the boys back home kicked with their feet, it’s surface a web of sandpaper like veins, he handed you a fleshy, honey yellow slice, the fruit more vibrant than you could have imagined under the rough skin. With an inclined brow he urged you to bite into it. As your teeth sunk in, streams of sweet dew spilled from your lips, dripping down your fingers. You flicked your wrist, but the juices clung on to your skin, more oozing from the fruit and dribbling down with each bite. “Is it good?”

Your lips coated with its juices, sucking on the back of your fingers and palm, you met his sharp eyes; nodding. “Yes,” you murmured. “May I please have more?”

“You may,” he husked, storming eyes never straying form yours resembling a doe during a hunt, as he carved out another. He watched with some insatiable fervour as you licked your fingers of the trickling nectar flowing down to coat your wrist. Drawing immense pleasure from the sight, he pierced the flesh of a ripe mango with his blade, craving more.

“What is this, Your Majesty?” you asked as he handed you a bright slice of a marigold fruit.

“A mango. It’s travelled over many lands from the other side of the world.”

Bowing your head you accepted, bringing it to your lips. “It’s delightfully sweet.”

“Is it?” The corner of his lips curled.

“Thank you.” You smiled. “It’s very kind of Your Majesty, for granting me such a luxury. I’m truly humbled.”

Affording you a mere grunt to accept your gratitude, he picked up an mulberry hued, oval fruit crowned with a thick green stem. Stabbing his thumb into the deep reddish-purple rind, he skinned the fruit of the thick peel; beneath it, lush white wedges. Separating the slices, he extended a piece, white nectar glazing his fingers.

It was much too strange, it resembled nothing of a fruit, layer upon layer its many strange textures. Shaking your head, at a loss of how to disobey his offer, you swallowed your lips.

“Try it,” Pharaoh ordered. “I assure you it’s like nothing you’ve tasted.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of Your Majesty,” you murmured.  
“One can never expand one’s horizons without the hunger to explore,” he encouraged, drawing you forward by your wrist into him, his other hand forcing the silken white fruit between your lips. Your back to the Nile, draped over his lap in the heat of the moment, you met clear chasms of sapphire as the fruit was thrust into your mouth, your tongue slurping at the juices coating his fingers in reflex as the white sweetness dribbled from your lips, staining your chin.

The edge of his lip sharpening you were much too virginal to decipher. It’s flesh thick and sweet, the tangy aftertaste tantalizing, your eyes flickering against his, you asked Pharaoh for another taste. Offering you another piece, he took a bite from a vibrantly pink half of a ripe fig. With a raised eyebrow, he inquired if you would like a taste. Innocently you nodded, the symbolism associated with the fruit in this region eluding you as he placed the fruit against your parted lips, exactly where he had taken a bite moments before.

Tucking away a stray wisp of your hair caught in the night breeze, “Do you like that?” he husked in question, the dark intonations in his pitch perceptible to anyone who had not been raised practicing the purest of virtues as a high priestess and exposed to no vices as the pleasures of the flesh.

“Yes. Very much,” you replied.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Seto,” he corrected, expression creasing. “I do not like repeating myself.”

“Yes...Seto.” You tasted the word. As you had suspected, his name from your tongue could never be unlearned.

“Very good,” he commended, lip curling slyly.

In return, oblivious to him, you offered him a smile.

Lifting the decanter he instructed for you to cup your hands. Pouring fresh water to cleanse your palate of the tart fruit, he explained what an invaluable resource clean, spring water was in Khemet, and what a privilege it was to have access to it which rivalled healthy seedlings in this land.

Unfamiliar with the motion, the water escaped from between your fingers before you lowered your lips to it, soaking his tunic. Growing hysterical at your blunder, for a moment believing it possible to soak the spilt water into the palms of your hands, you missed the wild expression of amusement which shaded his rich complexion as you repeatedly caressed him over the sodden fabric clinging to his sculpted chest.

You stammered a mad apology as he caught your wrist, a low chuckle resonating from deep within his chest.

“Let me,” he husked, tilting the decanter over his own cupped palm. Extending it under your chin, he instructed for you to drink. Sweeping your dark mane over one shoulder; moonlight sheathing your long neck in a silver lustre as you leaned forward, you grasped his large hand with both of yours, bringing your lips against his hand a second time that night. Holding your gaze he tipped his palm towards you for your ease, and as you drew in a long swallow, you suckled the tips of his fingers between your lips. Rumbling with a dangerous laugh he fixed you with an unreadable gaze. “Do you want me to be inside you that badly?”

The formalities in his tone had dropped. Your heart stuttered. You didn’t understand the meaning of his words and yet the tone taunted you.

“I tease.” He smirked, brushing his thumb across your wet lips. “Look how wet you’ve made yourself.” Surely he was referring to the water dripping past your chin and gathering in your raised clavicles?’

“That was hardly my own doing as much as it was yours, Pharaoh.”

“Was it?” His smirk widened. “How discourteous of me, making my woman wet on our first meeting.”

You allowed your cheeks to raise in a genuine smile in response. You wondered as you admired his undeniable beauty, how such a sight for sore eyes; how this was the face of a bloodless tyrant.

Possessing no mind to move away, you laid against him, the night breeze soothing your skin and tangling in your hair; the earlier bath — your first in months — having undone the strain in your muscles, his penetrating gaze was invasive, carefully disarming your inhibitions, bewitching you whole. And for a single precious moment under the stars before sleep descended over your lids, you would find clarity.

  
“You’re nothing like what I expected.”

“How so?” He was curious.

“You’re much more handsome,” you confessed. “I was told to expect the head of a jackal, but you’re...striking.”

Another velvet laugh ripped from his throat. “I imagine there are many stories of what I’ve done wandering the desert.” He lifted a fistful or your hair; gliding his closed palm through to the ends, he leaned forward as he inhaled deeply the scent of lotus. He seemed to gauge your reaction for a short instance before allowing his face to hover over yours, his moist lips pressing with ardour against the side of your cheek.

Was this a Khemetian custom of gratitude you wondered. Royals in your home court exchanged such kisses as a form of greeting all the time. You who had never before felt a man’s touch, couldn’t discern the passion with which it was delivered. You childishly reciprocated; straightening yourself from where you had been resting against his bent legs, placing a cautious palm against his left cheek, your lips lingering on his face for a moment longer than necessary; budding false hope.

“Tell me,” he said, “what else do they say about me?”

“That you have not touched a woman since ascending to the throne, possibly in your whole life.”

“True. I have not.”

“That you have no interest in women — that possibly, your interests lie elsewhere... in men perhaps.”

He chuckled at the speculation. “In men? I must admit, I have not heard that one before, though I assure you, my reasons for abstaining were only that I had not before found a woman worthy of my time and capable of retaining my attention...that is of course until now.”

“You mean to tell me you were bidding time waiting for the right woman? That you believe romantic love exists — that it’s not an illusion of a bygone empire?”

“I’m beginning to grow inclined to the idea, yes,” he admitted elusively. “Yourself?”

Paint it a moment of vulnerability, or foolishness, but you obliged in indulging him. “I think it would be an impossibility. I could never dispose of myself as one of the many wives to my husband. I couldn’t share the man I love, and I don’t imagine a man on earth would choose just one wife when presented the choice of many, so I say it is an impossibility.”

“Is that the caliber of man you see in me?” Pharaoh inquired. “That I would not be satisfied with just you?”

The principle divergence here was that the two of you were holding two very different conversations, not entirely separate of each other though they were parallels. He spoke having applying himself as the subject of your conversation whilst in your mind the position remained un-appointed; so his assurance would not comfort your distress.

“My greatest unhappiness,” you divulged, “would be growing old, waiting for my husband to come to me, wondering if each night would be the night he would come for me...each night not knowing whose bed chamber he was spending his night in.”

“I would never do that to you,” he asserted, stressing his proclamation with his lips planting against the side of your exposed neck.

For a very long moment as he drew away, you knew not what to say to him, and even after your thoughts had cleared to what he had done, you knew not what to do, so you just lay there staring up at the infinite canvas above, realizing amidst the insignificant sensation which dawned upon you at its magnificence, that you were all alone with this man in the dark, in some foreign land, far away from all you had ever known, and in spite of all the unfamiliarity which surrounded you, he remained the most elusive enigma.

...

It caused a furor amongst the handmaidens awaiting in your chamber when Pharaoh himself returned with your sleeping form nestled into his arms. It inspired a tempest in the minds of the repressed young women when he banished them all before locking himself in, having only inquired how to undo the fastenings of your dress and garments.

You stirred as he laid you down, having stripped you to the satin tunic underneath your gown. “Won’t you stay a moment longer?” you mumbled into his arms, though the receptacle of your mysterious affections in that moment, deceivingly, was not him.

It wouldn’t matter, he had never possessed any mind to leave.

You roused to an obscurely lit room; the moonlight stealing through the window shining against him, a thread of silver stitched into the pitch black, outlining his sinewy silhouette. He sat by your bedside as if to guard you, his arms crossed. You had wanted to ask him why he was here.

As you slipped into a deeper realm of sleep, he too shed his embellishments; with lithe grace slipping into the linen sheets beside you, cradling your small frame. The young monarch was a man of his word. You had bewitched him, and he _would_ lie beside no one else.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you think this is moving too fast... do we have news for you XD
> 
> Please do let us know what you thought!


	3. A Man With No Blood, No Heart

Bewitched, whetted indicolite shone like iridescent moonstone.

The moonlight bled onto warm skin pressed against warm skin. The contours of his body melding into yours, the lines of where his limbs ended and yours began blurred and dissolved in these early hours when even the gods slept.

Pharaoh lay awake, leaned over you his fingers memorizing your every curve and valley; from where the moonlight gathered in pools above your clavicles, past where the silk tunic raised in mounds — so responsive to his touch — before ghosting them over protruding ribs.

He had never laid with a woman before, much less touched one in the flesh; and now he thought, he would never lay with another. Beyond moral obligation, having witnessed you, in him he could gather no desire to waste his gaze on another.

As his thumb traced your lips, you twitched; and he held every muscle taut, his own lips suspended above yours — if anything was to betray him, it would be his breath breaking in waves over your Cupid’s bow.

Instead you turned, tangling into him, mumbling words he could attach no sense to. He held you; it felt most natural how you welcomed his embrace. His sinew frame which was the ultimate culmination of a lifetime of discipline in the art of the sword, the bow and war, dwarfed your lissome form. He wondered if he could break a woman if he held her too tight.

A gust of wind threw the curtains behind him, cooling the heat on the curves of his ears.

The cobalt-gazed monarch had trouble sleeping; behind his closed eyelids he always saw the shadows of warfare, the madness he brewed, though during day he always justified it as being for the sake of a united Khemet. Tonight he heard coursing blood; the beat of your pulse echoing from your temple against his chest, and after your voice, he had never heard an instrument so soothing.

...

You were reminded of the fragrance of a mango in your sleep; the nectar having stained his wrists.

The sun you saw was the Delphini sun. Mahaado’s gaze was warm as his touch, and his stories endlessly fascinating. Except you wondered, how did you know stories of Khemet and his great Pharaoh that he had not recounted?

You wondered where the man who stood before you, shielding you from the midsummer sun was. You wondered if you would see him again. You wondered if he had married.

...

He roused to moist skins writhing beneath linen sheets. Dawn had begun stitching with a blushing thread, hues of golden rose into the horizon. You still slept; and that you had found enough comfort to rest in his arms after months of travel he found immense satisfaction in.

“We are of the same mind, are we not?” Pharaoh asked leaning over you, as he sorted stray wisps of ebony away from closed lids. Your lashes he observed were longer than the feathered fans his servants waved on hot days. His yearning fingertips were pulsing as they wandered to the hem of your dress gathered high on your thighs, and he possessed no qualms as he palmed the soft flesh of your inner thighs, stopping inches from their junction. “By tonight we’ll be of the same body, and you and I will only ever belong to each other.” He kissed the back of your palm, then his fingers curiously traced your form to your breasts which had blossomed at his touch.

You limbs animated at the stimulation, and he decided to leave his explorations for another time. He disappeared silently from your side; and you woke up to empty sheets.

...

Your assurance had done little to smoothen the creases of unrest on Irene’s features. Crowning your head with a braided bun; your long mane twisted into a thick rope, you could feel the same question she had been posing repeatedly in disbelief weighing her tongue as soon as you had finished your answer.

You had shared no intimacy, you insisted. Drowning in moonlight in the distance, he had merely watched you from the corner of the room, as if to guard you in this land which was so foreign. All you could recall of the night, you said, was being suspended in an enveloping sense of warmth after months of toiling in chilling desert nights.

Perhaps a result of the dream you had had, you silently mused; they were becoming more common. Was he drawing near?

“He seemed a reasonable character,” you said, “and I think he meant it when he said I could ask for anything of him. I’m considering it.”

“Milady how could you be so naive?” your handmaiden cried. “His title — ” she subdued her voice as you cautioned her with a horned gaze — “his title did not find him by chance. Where there is smoke there is a flame.”

“Your prejudice of him speaks a great deal of your insolence. You’re believing what you’ve heard of his enemies, instead of me who you’ve served since childhood. Believe me when I say I encountered the man with the utmost repulsion for his character and his legacy. I’m seeing him anew. For me to be converted — do you see me so naive?”

Her head fell. “No, Your Highness, I — ”

“And if you asked upon the enemies of our Holy Empire — of the families of their fallen soldiers what they thought of my uncle, would you not hear the same? History is written by the victors Irene. Be sure you’re standing on the right side of history.”

Your voice you had maintained silent, but the sharp hiss it evolved to be carried across the room to the timorous handmaiden laying your bed with fresh linen — Ife you thought she had introduced herself. You supposed they were all reserved in your presence to varying degrees though this one especially so. Perhaps it could be attributed to her limited grasp of the common tongue; she seemed to just shrink in your presence, though her eyes never did. They refused to yield. It was unsettling.

Another handmaiden advised in Irene’s ear that Ramsay was waiting for you by your chamber doors. You raised your hand in dismissal as Irene began to relay the information tediously to you.

His unplanned appearances by your door was seemingly becoming a habit — a tiresome one — the way bed bugs had a habit of gnawing their way into skin from the sheets. It eased your irritation, the knowledge that he would be departing for Delphini later that morning though it would do little to alleviate the dull ache which brewed behind your eyes at having to perform the prosaic task of bidding him an exaggerated farewell, purely for the sake of decorum. It was as irksome as combing an infestation of head lice from one’s hair.

“Pleasant morning,” he bade.

“It _was_ ,” you retorted, sweeping the cape of your ivory gown with one hand to drape before you, almost as if to put an extra barrier between.

He cleared his throat, observing the hostile gesture. He proceeded with his head bowed. “Your house and mine have not always been friends. But still you have offered yourself as Tribute, sparing the lives of fifty good young women who had been summoned by the Great Emperor and those blustering fools in his court. In your selfless sacrifice, I don’t know if you were aware, you spared my fiancée and her elder sister from that same fate.”

“You sound as if I’ve been condemned to die here Ramsay.”

“The distance between the two of us is mostly upon my shoulders. I have not been the most reliable and mature of individuals, playing around while you were holding the fate of our fair nation on your shoulders. I suppose it's those qualities that led you to be so taken with your handsome tyrant, Pharaoh Newt Symphonies? I had been searching for you the night before to share a drink, but I was told you left quite early. The court whispers that you spent the evening alone with his majestic personage.”

“Taken with him? Striking he most definitely is but I couldn’t begin to fathom what could have given you that impression.”

“You spent the night with him did you not? In your chamber.” _Inquisitive tadpole_.

“Word travels fast.” You had a loose mouth amongst your entourage, clearly. “What have you come to see me for? Isn’t the envoy preparing to leave?”

“Our lord uncle has given the order to destroy all images of you, and treat you as if you are lost and long gone. This I cannot abide, nor will I. As our ancestors fought against the Lich King and his horsemen, let the main and cadet branch houses of Delphini stand together again.”

“What overly righteous nonsense are you spewing?” you asked with a liberal roll of your eyes.

From his closed palm he produced one of the sigils which had been pinned to his cape; a wooden engraving symbolizing a cadet branch house of Delphini, personalized to represent him was embedded into the gilded frame. It bore the carving of a stone tower. He folded the imperial seal into your hesitant palm.

  
“Farewell, my lady. I pray you will never have to call me to arms, for it would only be a situation most dire.”

“Indeed...I appreciate the gesture Ramsay. I only wish it had not taken us two decades to talk our peace.”

“I’m glad,” he replied, a wry smile on his lips, “that at least after two decades, we part having spoken our peace.”

Perhaps you had misjudged his boyish outlook, you reflected as you watched his receding silhouette under the mulberry trees past the corridor’s stone arches, heart inexplicably heavy. What if pessimism was not in fact a tool in survival but a hindrance?

Not all oils lit the way, some burned empires to the ground.

…

Traversing through the grand and stately halls in the morning light was... something different. Although from outside Sepfuruna's structures had already struck you as magnificent and grim, walking through the towering sandstone pillars and underneath the gargantuan arches drove a needles through your spine. At your fingertips you could feel the passage of time; ever since your arrival, you had been possessed by a very acute awareness of history being made in the most mundane of moments — if any moment could have been cheapened to bear such a definition. Perhaps it was how the Khemetians recorded every passing moment on their walls and tapestries; tracing the carvings on the curving pillars with your fingertips, it was almost as if the place was holding its breath, while every generation before you continued to breath. Even when they have not walked these exact halls.

You paused in an empty courtyard path lined with cultivated cedar and gazed out into the horizon.

According to the stories, thirty warlords from the South had formed a coalition during the second year of Pharaoh’s reign and tried to bring ruin to this great city, traitors playing their part in the systematic destruction of several important outposts in Lower Khemet in an effort to cut off Pharaoh’s arms and legs. In the end, their war path had ended with the coalition dying at the doorstep of Sepfuruna. All thirty warlords were long dead now, struck down on Pharaoh's command. And while the survivors’ whispers remained somewhere in a far corner of your mind, you now saw a different face of this tale.

You imagined tens and hundreds of soldiers storming in waves over the horizon, preparing to cross the Nile and lay siege to the city. You saw the citizens of Sepfuruna locked and barricaded inside the gates, listening to the approach of the coalition’s vanguard forces. You saw Pharaoh standing alone in this very same tree lined pathway, gazing over the land just as you were now.

History was written by the victors, it was said, though on the outskirts of power, rumours of the damned ran rampant. Indeed, a story was polished with many facets. After meeting him, you began to fathom those stories through the eyes of those who depended upon him for protection.

...

“Your Highness, we’ve arrived,” spoke one of the two handmaidens who had trailed three steps behind you to the ebony banquet hall. Irene had organized the seven women assigned to serving you; at least one would always serve beside you.

The palace sentinels stationed at the door bowed low before stepping to allow you inside.

During yesterday's afternoon meal, the ebony banquet hall had been crowded with over a dozen White Court councilmen in addition to Prince Charmles and his company. This morning the long wooden table hosted three people sitting together on one side, conversing in hushed tones. The raised, gilded chair at the head of the table, its back carved with Ibises in flight, embellished beetles and centred by a symbol you recalled seeing on Pharaoh’s tunic, was empty. There was no sign of the rightful owner.

The three men immediately noticed your presence and broke off from their quiet discussion, respectfully rising to their feet at your approach.

“We have yet to exchange words with one another since your arrival, yes?” You recognized the first man who addressed you as Pharaoh’s Vizier, the man who had been in charge of the Tribute Inspection. Indeed, when he wasn’t speaking in overly formal speech to an audience at large he had a mild countenance and a soothing voice. His features were elegant and refined, almost feminine, and his beautiful face struck you as something sculpted for crueler expressions. “Please allow me to rectify this oversight at once, your highness. I am called Sennefer, Vizier and special adviser to Pharaoh Nekhtsethenes.” He gestured to his breakfast companions. “It is my pleasure to introduce you to Councilman Sagi of the White Court, and Councilman Zahur of the Red Court.”

Both officials were clearly much younger than government ministers had any right to be. Of course the possibility stood that these young men were newly instated. Sagi elected for silence, though his probing stare filled the quiet, subjecting you to unease. Zahur succeeded in furthering this discomfort by stepping directly to physical contact.

“Mind your distance, friend.” Sennefer was quick to intervene, lowering the young man’s outstretched hand with a firm gaze. “The First Prince of Ashenvale is in dire straits with Pharaoh because of his fool attempts at wooing Her Highness.”

“Aye. Of course,” Zahur said, recoiling.

“May I inquire after your general welfare, your highness?” Sennefer asked as the four of you sat down to eat. “Have your chambers been furnished to your liking? I would be happy to oblige any requests you have. As the right hand of His Majesty, there is little beyond my authority to grant you.”

“I’m quite well.” You kept your words terse. “Thank you.” You would not dare voice your wish to live outside the palace on your own. Pharaoh’s sincere offer to grant your every desire was one matter, but words crossing through many mouths were easily lost and often intentionally manipulated in translation. Simply put, you did not trust the word of the Vizier on this. A man with elevated power was synonymous with a man with the ability to exploit circumstance to will. Instead, you asked him of the the monarch’s current whereabouts, obscuring your intentions.

“Ah, His Majesty has made it known that none shall disturb him until tomorrow morning,” Sennefer explained. “Pharaoh has locked himself within his workshop...though perhaps...he would make an exception for you.” He summoned a runner, penned a short note with characters you did not understand, and sent the young servant off to deliver the message.

“I could not help but notice the absence of people moving about the palace,” you remarked curiously some time during the meal. “Where have the residents gone? What of their duties and tasks? It’s already late morning.”

It was Councilman Zahur who answered you. “Ha! After last night's festivities I'd expect them to recover their wits by the time the sun is at its zenith. Not even the priesthood can resist indulging in spirits, especially on such a happy occasion. On such days Pharaoh has ordered for them to not be sought until high noon.”

“This is but a normal occurrence during celebrations, your highness," Sennefer said, observing the expression of unrestrained disbelief which silently posed its own question. "Rest assured, there are always a number of people on hand who refrain from hard drinking to perform their duties the day after. The majority of Inquisitors abstain from indulging themselves too much to help maintain order. Pharaoh always gives his subjects ample time for worship and leisure, and always ensures their safety.”

“I see. I’m learning much of the working of your city thanks to you,” you said, earning a plain smile.

“As your humble servant,” Vizier disputed, “I am merely performing my duty, Your Highness.”

You didn’t like you remarked in thought, the way his voice curled at the end of his sentences, as if the curling tail of a feline, as if he had something to hide.

…

In the sun bathed courtyard you stood across the channel lining Pharaoh’s quarters. He had not returned your request for an audience. You supposed you weren’t an exception. A moment of inquisitive interrogation could not have elevated you above his indiscriminate disinterest for women.

A few steps ahead the wind was spinning fine dust into miniature dust storms shading the hem of your skirt. You turned and walked back under the arches held up by pillars, pacing the corridor parallel to the riverbank; on your left a maze of corridors punctuated by stretches of walls wove into the bowels of the palace; light spilling into some where they opened into indoor courtyards.

It was serene — you would only begin to form the thought before a piping scream rippled through the stillness. Following the curve of the corridor, you sprinted, to your left, against the corner of an adjoining passage discovering a servant girl pinned against the wall by her neck.

“What in heaven’s name are you doing?” you demanded. “Unhand my servant at once!”

An aftertaste of bile washed over your palette at the all too familiar head of flaxen hair and anthracite eyes sunken in under ridges of swollen skin. They met yours and narrowed. Prince Charmles was exactly as you remembered him, fairly tall, a sweaty appearance, a distended stomach, and oozing arrogance — and body odour — from every pore. Except instead of the garishly yellow tunic from the day before, he wore a black riding suit with a forest green cloak that highlighted his rolling bundles of flesh embellishing his mid-section as well as the tunic did. Perhaps even more so.

None of his bannermen were in the immediate vicinity. From the way he was currently attired it was clear he was scheduled to leave Sepfuruna with his own envoy today, just as Ramsay was.

Your palms grew dampened with sweat; you clenched them as the Ashenvale prince languidly shoved the frightened and disheveled handmaiden to the side. Your eyes followed her tumble to the cold hard floor with all the grace of a wounded donkey. From where she laid, you could see her face more clearly; and you confirmed that she indeed was one of your handmaidens.

Had that unforgivable swine saw fit to assault the women in your employ when he’d failed in his endeavour to corner you?

His scowl deepened as his bloodshot eyes traveled down the length of your body — lingering a lapsing moment over your chest — before returning to your face.

“I know you passed the night with Pharaoh Nekhtsethenes in your chambers. My sprained wrist throbs with pain, even now. Be honest with me. How many times did the Tyrant break your virginal body, my sweet?” was the impertinent question he posed to you, licking his lips; that slimy drawl unleashing a swarm of slithering maggots into your ears.

You narrowed your eyes and replied, “I don’t see how that is any of your business. Who gave you permission to trespass into my domain and touch my servant? Know that I won’t stand for this outrage! One way or another, I’ll see due punishment served. Prison seems a fitting place for scum like you.” You didn’t bother with formalities; he deserved none of your respect.

From your peripheral you caught one of your handmaidens dashing away, presumably to call for the guards. The other one assisted the terrorized servant girl into the relative safety of your chambers.

“I don’t like others using my property,” Charmles continued as his eyes glazed with anger and lust narrowed them to beady slits, the animosity thick upon the air.

You tilted your head up as you responded, “I am no one’s property. I have not been and nor will I ever be.”

A scalding chill burned your spine again as Prince Charmles lurched towards you, his hand closing around your lithe forearm. His eyes appeared to have difficulty focusing, and at this close range you smelled wine and the faintest traces of lotus masked by his sour odour. What had he been ingesting since yesterday that was affecting him so much now?

He leaned forward and his breath was hot against your ear and neck. “I like it even less when my generosity is rejected. This behaviour isn’t becoming you, sweet princess of the moon. I think it would be in your interests to follow me,” he said in a low voice.

Incensed, you jerked your arm away from him. “No,” you said while reaching for the knife hidden on your person, your movements as surreptitious so as to not earn his attention.

He threw back his head and laughter shook the ancient stone pillars. You froze as he unsheathed a gleaming, silver dagger from his waist; suddenly swinging the blade at your face.

The movement was telegraphed and poorly executed. Even with your draping skirts, his ill calculated strike was easy to avoid. He took a step forward and thrust out. Again, you moved, spinning your body away from the blade. “Enough games,” he said with a growl.

Your eyes widened as his movements became sharper, more precise. With a cry you pushed your muscles to weave and roll through the sudden onslaught. Metal clanged and scraped against metal as you unsheathed your own dagger and parried the blows you could not dodge in time.

His surprising fencing skills forced you to reconsider the portly prince’s abilities. Here was the proof that he had been trained in combat, and suddenly his claims to be a general in the Ashenvale army did not seem so farfetched. If he was not stumbling on his drunken feet every two swings, you might have not fared as well as you were doing right this moment.

You grit your teeth as you evaded a blow that came stronger than all the ones before. You needed to regroup and change the location of this duel; your heavy skirts tangling your legs were doing you no favours in this darkened hall. You needed to move to a place where the guards could reach you in time.

“Run, princess!” The handmaiden who had left to assist the assaulted servant into your chambers had returned. She threw herself bodily into Prince Charmles’s back, staggering him.

Being the survivor you were, you did not hesitate, nor did you stay to watch Charmles and the handmaiden fall to the stone floor. You turned and fled as quickly as you could, your heart in your throat.

Not more than a minute later you felt a presence loom behind your back and you turned your face around just in time to see Prince Charmles roughly grab at your shoulders. “You won’t escape me so easily, princess!” he crowed with a sneer before shoving you with all his strength.

You cried out as you were propelled onto the courtyard path; the stone already uncomfortably warm from the morning sun, scalding your back. Air ripped from your lungs, your entire body convulsed at the impact. You coughed as you scrambled to sit up, but Charmles was looming over you. He pressed you back to the ground by your neck and you gasped, trying to take air into your burning lungs.

“Pathetic, like some common whore, displaying yourself before Pharaoh when you should be mine. Since you’ve become quite the whore, I think I shall make use of your cunt before I take my leave. After all, you’ve become below my notice now,” the prince slurred as he sat on your thighs and held your arms above your head with one punishing hand, the other hand fumbling with your dress.

You lay paralyzed, every muscle locking in place as that unfamiliar ice washed over your spine again and again. Your heart was a toad in your throat and you felt yourself tremble ever so slightly as his dagger sliced through the silk of your bodice, exposing a narrow strip of skin all the way to your stomach.

No, your own mind shouted at you, no!

“No,” you rasped aloud as the enraged voice in your head spilled forth from your lips, “No! How dare you, you filthy —”

You clenched your smaller hands and with a surge of renewed energy, thrashing wildly against his hold. He snarled as he was nearly dislodged from his seat on your legs and said in a thick whisper, “Why not pick up your blade and run me through, my sweet? Do you not have it anymore? Of course you don’t, how unfortunate for you.”

You continued to struggle, but he was larger, heavier and more powerful. For what was probably the second time in your life, you felt pure hatred for another human being. You had never fathomed a bigger dishonour than death, though in that moment, being defiled by a depraved beast seemed infinitely worse. By now he had cut away a large portion of the cloth, loosening the garment. He began running his fingers across your exposed shoulders.  
Wherever did the handmaiden who ran for help go? Where were the palace guards? Did Sennefer not mention that the Inquisitors abstained from indulging themselves too much for the sole purpose of maintaining order?

His fingers hooked into the edges of the torn bodice; in a moment you would be exposed entirely to his touch; that nauseating gaze.

You closed your eyes.

One moment Charmles was on top of you and the next he was scrambling off you in a crouch, a snarl of surprised pain erupting from his lips. You needed only a brief glance to understand what had happened; a single arrow had lodged itself straight and true into the prince's upper left shoulder. Clutching the ripped fabric to your chest with both hands, the blood pounding in your ears, it was instinct which shot you to your feet. Staggering to his feet also, “Who dares?” Charmles screamed, clutching at his wound.

You glanced up and stared as a familiar man dressed in a white tunic adorned with gilded accessories emerged from the nearby watchtower; his deep purple cape and dishevelled russet tresses lifting with the wind, his steely blue eyes were narrowed at the prince. At his side a great longbow was slung.

“This way!” You heard a voice cry from further down the cedar lined pathway. Your handmaiden dashed towards you with four palace sentinels at her heels.

...

“I suppose in your case,” Pharaoh spoke through a clenched jaw, standing before the prince several moments later, “you have to take whatever opportunity you can to have your hands touch a woman and grasp it whole. Almost as much as you grasp your own cock I imagine, though you certainly don’t need two hands for that.”

“Mind yourself, Pharaoh,” huffed the odious royal as he glanced in his direction. “Being an ally doesn't make you untouchable.”

“No, I'd have to be an overweight, girl-beating sham of a prince to be untouchable. Pray tell, can you see your dick beneath that immovable mass you call a stomach? Or would it be too minuscule even if you weren't a whale miraculously given the gift of walking on land?”

“Last chance, I'm warning you! My father would have your head on a pike!”

“I can't imagine what brave soul plowed the mythical beast that was your mother to sire you. Your family name means so little in the grand scheme of things I can hardly tell just how your father managed to rise so far as to become a king, let alone a god supposedly of equal standing as I. Tell me the truth, prince: just where exactly did the priest touch you as a boy, and how much did you enjoy it?”

“You've crossed the line, you ungrateful desert mongrel! My father will — ”

Charmles had turned then, with his hand reaching for his sword-hilt, no doubt looking to unsheathe it and sink it into Pharaoh Nekhtsethenes’s neck.

The prince didn’t have time to react when a hooded palace guard ambushed him from the left, the knife slashing across his face, cutting through his right eye, the bridge of his nose and onwards through his left eye. His howl of pain reverberated across the courtyard.

Dark scarlet spurted; it was blood. There was so much blood.

You drew in a sharp gasp, one hand abandoning its grip against the fabric to clasp your mouth which filled your lungs with heavy air. The air did not help you breathe, in fact it fulfilled the opposite; knotting in your throat like a scarf of shackling metal.

The first stab went through his left cheek, angled down through it to his jawbone. There was a distinct crunch.

The second stab went through his throat, coming through as the palace sentinel reversed his grip after ripping it out of the suffering prince's jawbone, the entrails splattering all across the stone floors.

The rest after that were blurs of torn flesh. Pharaoh Nekhtsethenes did not move an inch from where he stood, watching impassively as the man he’d shared meat and wine with not long ago was reduced to slivers; the prince’s blood staining his white robes.

Those who crossed the Tyrant of the Black Lands never lived long enough to regret it. The message etched itself to the pits of your consciousness.

Another palace sentinel bowed before Pharaoh. “Your Majesty. Prince Charmles' bannermen will be accounted for soon enough. Reek as well, and the dogs besides.”

“Good. When it’s finished, burn their bodies and scatter the bones. Is that understood?”

With your clasped palm you suppressed the whimper which threatened to escape. You ducked behind a cedar tree, pressing yourself against the trunk. It was impossible to not steal a glance over your shoulder.

“At once, Your Majesty,” chorused the two sentinels. The first one leaned back down, twisting his dagger out before sinking it back into the heap of flesh. The second guard assisted him quietly, stabbing again and again with his own dagger until there was nothing left of Charmles but a growing pool of blood spreading across the floor.

“Chief Inquisitor Omar.”

Omar stood at attention before Pharaoh and reported solemnly. “The girls he passed the time with during the festivities shall be captured, their flesh carved up and given to what’s left of the dogs, the bones to be burnt in the furnaces and cracked. Is there anything else I might do, Your Majesty?”

Even the women? Your trembling limbs grew weaker; convulsion gripping your whole form at the thought.

“Have two hawks prepared for flight. One for Wase, another for Nezusir.”

“Their messages, sire?”

“To Wase... muster three thousand men, and prepare to march for the Rise after linking with the Deadwinds.”

“And to Nezusir?”

“Call upon the High Priestess of Nezusir if I might have her healers sent to the Delta, and her presence in Sepfuruna for a war council.”

You needed to leave. Now. If this was not a gory foretelling of your own future upon your request to leave the palace, you didn’t know what was. The gods couldn’t be clearer and you held no intention of becoming a carved up pile of disembodied limbs and flesh at the feet of the heartless monster this nation worshipped as their god.

Gathering the fabric against your chest with one hand, you made haste to escape the careful eye of the bloodless king.

...

Pharaoh Nekhtsethenes visited you in your chambers that afternoon; his robes still stained, though you had changed.

He kneeled beside you on the lounging chair, insisting you remain as you were, splayed over the cushions. Taking your hand, “Blue looks exquisite on you,” he observed of your gown, his voice scraping the deepest registers a man could reach.

His footsteps had been so silent that you had not heard them meet the limestone tile.

You held your head low. You couldn’t meet the eyes of a king who could murder a man with such savage ferocity.

“You must have been frightened by the earlier incident,” he said, “my apologies for being late to protect you. It won’t happen a third time. As you witnessed, I’ve taken the liberty of eliminating that swine. You will never face such danger or dishonour again in my kingdom.” You nodded along to his every word, your hand still between his much larger ones. “I came to inquire after your well-being,” he told you. “I see you’re still shaking. Shall I have some brewed lotus sent to your chamber?”

You wondered if he noticed that with each moment he held on to you, your convulsions grew more violent. He soothed you with strokes of his rough palm. It all felt very unnatural, at least to you in that moment.

“F—for —” you faltered, swallowing, “for coming to my aid, I thank you. I’m indebted to Your Majesty.”

“Seto,” he said, “how many times now have I asked you call me by name. I want no formalities between us.”

“Yes, my apologies.”

“That too,” Pharaoh insisted, “is a formality.”

You bowed your head deeper. Turning he advised one of your handmaidens congregated in the doorway to bring you some tea. He remained silently by your side until the maid returned with a tray. He had not moved an inch; settled on the stone floor on one knee as if a sculpted statue.

He chuckled as he followed your eyes, transfixed in concealed horror against the dried stains of dirty garnet. “Should I have changed my robes before coming to see you, princess? Does the sight of blood unsettle you?”

“No of course not, Your — ” Unable to muster the wit to speak his name, and afraid of upsetting him by addressing him by title, you held your tongue.

With a knowing smirk turning up his lips, he lifted the cup from the tray the handmaiden held, offering it to you. Your hands quavered as your fingers hooked into the handle, so his palms remained wrapped as he brought it to your lips.

The scalding liquid burnt your tongue though you made no motion to reject the gesture; squeezing close your eyes and swallowing all of what he tipped into your mouth from the cup. If you had winced, he made no motion indicating he had noticed.

If he had asked what flavour the tea was, you could not tell. Your whole mouth was numb; palate scorched.

“You don’t seem to like it,” he remarked, setting the cup on the floor. With his thumb he wiped away at the thin dribble of the clear liquid which had run down to your chin.

“Not at all I —”

“You’re a terrible liar, princess,” Pharaoh said, “I can read you like an open book.”

You certainly hoped not. If he could, he would have seen your plans to flee by nightfall.

...

“Your Highness, how are you feeling?” The eldest of your handmaidens tentatively asked you some time after Pharaoh’s departure. “Would you like something to eat? The sun is high, and the palace cooks are in full force now that they've finished restocking.”

You had been lounging in your chambers for the past hour, performing maintenance on your alchemical tools and doing inventory on your ingredients. This wasn’t unusual at all, Irene had explained to the other handmaidens. You were always studious and self-disciplined. In the Holy Empire you were always fond of taking trips into the wilds, foraging supplies for your experiments. Thanks to Irene’s reassurance, none of the women found it odd when you eventually put together a small outdoors alchemical kit and a light travel pack.

You carefully considered your handmaiden’s earnest suggestion to eat at length. “That sounds wonderful. I'm feeling a bit famished.”

“And are there any dishes in particular you'd be wanting, milady?”

A bashful smile touched your lips. “I've been eating such rich and decadent fare since yesterday, so I would like a selection of their finest dried meats and pickled vegetables. Some plain bread would be appreciated as well.”

“There's no need to be hesitant about your desires, Your Highness,” another handmaiden objected as politely as possible. “His Majesty has developed a fondness for you and holds you in high regard, higher than anyone else in the kingdom. He has given the order to fulfill your every wish. It would not be a hardship for the cooks to prepare your preferred dishes.”

“I enjoy the simpler things in life,” you said. “Dishes that are easy to make I tend to favour.”

“That sounds lovely!” exclaimed a younger handmaiden. Her eyes lit up with a sudden idea. “Your Highness, would you be interested in trying my special fruit juice? The other girls always insist it needs more honey when I squeeze it fresh for them, but you might appreciate its subtle flavour.” Her wandering eyes as she addressed you happening upon the sharp look of disapproval shading the older handmaiden — Asim if you recalled — she faltered. “Ah — I deeply apologize for my impertinence, Your Highness!”

“There’s no need for apologies,” you said after a moment. “Would you mind terribly if I took some time to consider your generous offer?”

“Your consideration alone is more than I could ask for!” demurred the handmaiden, her bright smile betraying her happiness. “Thank you so much, Your Highness!”

…

“And this concludes our survey of His Majesty's sacred palace grounds,” said the handmaiden who was assigned with familiarizing you with the palace. She was the same handmaiden who had come to your rescue, throwing herself in the way of bodily harm against Prince Charmles so you could run.

“Your Highness? Are you in need of a healer?” the other handmaiden accompanying you, Ife, asked softly. She was the still the most formal and reserved of them all, only speaking when spoken to, and as little as possible. Her gaze still made you uneasy.

“I agree, you have suddenly gone pale,” observed the first handmaiden. “Shall I fetch a runner?”

“There’s no need,” you assured tensely. “I am fine.”

…

You chose to have an early supper. Over a hearty meal of roasted duck, you advised your handmaidens to allow you some privacy in your quarters at dusk so you could turn in at an earlier time. They acquiesced with your request without complaint, and gave you their well wishes for your health. The girls believed that you were still weary from months of travel across the lands. Irene loyally made sure to set out your favourite and most comfortable foraging garments for use tomorrow.

You smiled and thanked her for her attention to detail and foresight. You would not tell her you would be using these garments tonight.

All of your supplies were stowed away with an experienced hand and eye.

When the sun vanished completely below the horizon sewn with deep indigo, you picked up your rucksack and vacated your chambers. You would not dare look back; every second wasted with lingering attachment was much too precious.  
…

In your mind was a certain destination. Several hundred leagues up the Nile, on the opposite side of the river was an abandoned city which was falling to ruin from disrepair and the passage of time. The Delphini envoy had set up camp nearby several days ago, but none had dared to venture past the gates. Your guide had strictly cautioned the envoy against disturbing the final resting place of the thousands of people who had died there in agony. He had clearly been frightened of the possibility of ghosts, or curses.

It would serve as an acceptable temporary shelter from the sweltering heat of the sun during the day. The next night, you would continue your journey across the marshlands in search of a suitable place to live the rest of your life in peace.

The palace grounds were not as empty as it was this morning. Nor was it as silent as the royal halls of the Great Emperor's palace back home. You had contemplated utilizing the secret underground passages Pharaoh had shown you to avoid detection but you immediately discarded the idea; you did not wish to lose yourself in those corridors. You were certain of its labyrinthine nature, and worse, what if the Vizier or Pharaoh himself happened upon you? The way forward was clear. You needed to traverse the palace halls themselves.

Despite the heavy cloak and hood obfuscating your features, none paid you any heed. You had observed since your arrival in Sepfuruna that as long as one did not draw needless attention to themselves by behaving in a furtive manner, their presence was largely ignored. So you walked past messengers, scribes, and all kinds of officially dressed individuals with your head held high and at a leisurely pace. On your way you passed others who also wore hooded cloaks and carried all sorts of equipment on their persons, which helped you blend in with the streams of people on palace grounds. The patrolling sentinels did not bat a single eye at their appearance, or yours. You marvelled at the lax security.

After several nerve wracking moments, you found yourself directly outside the palace entrance. Your insides danced with joy, but you quashed those feelings. Now was not the time to celebrate. Now was the crucial time for action.

Earlier during the survey of the palace you had inquired after the boats you had spied moored to the riverbank, and the citizens that had been waiting patiently close by in small groups. Your handmaiden had enthusiastically explained the boating service that could quickly take nine passengers at a time up and down the Nile with the help of the river's currents and the strong winds. The service was free, as it was being maintained by Pharaoh himself, and it was a simple matter of waiting one's turn to ride on the boats currently available.

You needed to catch one of the last boats being sent up the Nile, and get off at the port closest to the abandoned city.

Before heading in the direction of the docks, you were assailed by sudden uneasiness. You faltered, and thought over your plans of escape once again. Was there something you had missed?

You opened your rucksack and checked the contents once again. You did not see anything amiss. Everything you would need to survive on your own had been squared away...

No. Something was indeed missing. It was not important for your survival, but important all the same. Your prized possession, your little yellow canary toy, was not amongst your tools and supplies.

It was only a toy, you tried to convince yourself against the distress and panic swelling in your chest. A plaything to help pass the time. A whimsical gift from the gentle foreign merchant whom you had met years ago. An object that ultimately would help you attain nothing. These cold and logical rationales swarmed your mind, the chaotic push and pull between your desires and your drive to live blinding you to all else around you.

But it was the only piece of happiness you had ever known, cried a voice from a place somewhere deep within you. A pitiful voice you had ignored again and again for the sake of survival.

In the end, no matter how insignificant in the grand scheme of things, you always treasured those small and simple things in life.

This time, you could not ignore the pleas of your heart. We all had our exceptions.

With one last glance over the tranquil river reaching for the ends of the earth, you turned; self full of false certainty that you would set your eyes over it again before the day was over.

If a toy was to bring you ruin, then at least once, you would have lived for yourself, instead of the sake of keeping alive. The journey back contradicted your every principle; your cape sweeping dusty hallways, around their corners and down shallow stairs, retracing your way back to your chamber.

The crowds in the corridors had thinned, and near your quarters the passages were desolate under a completely declined sun.

Your chambers were dimly lit and empty. Your heart beat in your ears as you retrieved the yellow canary and tucked it into your cape.

You turned and turned again on many pillar lined corridors.

The passage wrapped around a courtyard. At the end of it, you would cross the courtyard, and you would vanish from this kingdom and escape their blood thirsting gods and godlike men.

Oil lanterns burnt the walls orange and saffron. And under their dancing flicker, a shadow from behind grew and waned, darkening the path ahead of you, approaching. The footsteps were heavy.

He called your name and your feet bound themselves to the ground. Your blood was cold from his voice. He came closer still, the man with no blood in his veins and no heart. He wouldn’t know what you were feeling if you expressed it.

He placed his hand on your shoulder. “I asked you a question.” You had not heard his question. Your mind was too loud. You could not fathom how a man could make a sound so abrasive. “I asked you, what you are doing so far from your quarters.” You could see in your mind’s eye, the imperial gates open to your escape.

You didn’t want to die.

Fingers carving into your skin over the fabric of your robe, he spun you to face him. Pharaoh’s eye were careful, and frighteningly observant; they fell to the rucksack you clenched tightly in your hand. You shouldn’t have attempted to hide it away from him as he insisted on snatching it from your grip.

Those eyes which held the entire night sky arrested yours as he swept back your hood. In your trance he relieved your hand of the bag.

A thorough inspection wasn’t necessary; your state of dress was enough to betray your intentions.

“Your Majesty please — ” you pleaded in a stuttered as sapphire bore into you.

“You’ve betrayed me.”

“No that wasn’t — ”

Pharaoh stepped closer, his large palm shackling over your upper arm in a vise like hold. “I thought I told you crown princess, that I could read you like an open book. It would be in your best interest to not lie to me.” Your whole expression clenched, head falling to the ground. His breath kissed your hair line. “Understand princess, that none shall enter, nor leave my realm, without my permission. You did not enter this palace on your own accord, never make the mistake of assuming you will leave on such a thing as free will.”

Your defiance manifested in tearful whimpers. He drew you into an embrace. You knew well his arms could move before the fall of a breath to twist your neck. You remained very still. You could hear his heart beat.

“Your transgression tonight,” he husked, “warrants me executing you for high treason where you stand.” The young monarch soothed you with a stroke of his palm over your hair as your whimpers grew violent at the notion. “Instead of asking you pay for your crimes, I’m bestowing upon you the highest honour a woman of this land could be presented.

“You will live here, and you will die here, serving for the rest of your life as my royal wife and the Queen of this nation.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo! This is Eastern_Standard, or better known as that one guy that coauthored a duel with Wanderlust in a certain other well-known work, the self-proclaimed wingman of Seto Kaiba who keeps blowing up the comments section, Est!
> 
> This chapter was meant to be shorter than the last one. Whoops. It definitely isn't my fault this time. Totally.
> 
> At the risk of sounding like a home shopping channel, don't forget to tell us your thoughts on the way the story is developing! We appreciate hearing from you!


	4. The Cost of Happiness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thank you all of you for the lovely comments, it’s nice to hear that people enjoy reading about ancient Seto. 
> 
> Enjoy and let us know what you think :)

 

A fateful dance with death before the reign of night. In the darkness of the hallway he held you, with sculpted arms and eyes of blue blades.

“Vow to serve me faithfully, to honour and obey,” he said in a husk. “I don’t believe this is asking for a lot.”

You trembled against him. His was not the face of death. A sallow face, a bony nose pointed down; a sinister appearance, was what you had always envisioned. Though perhaps that was the face of your step- mother, and his, his was the face of the demon. The most wicked were the most beautiful — it was how they lured you in. It was why the vices place upon the earth by the hands of the devil, such as gluttony and love making were inspired by the most enticing sights.

Your response wouldn’t satisfy him. And why would it, all you had managed was a tumble of incoherent pleas. He held you tighter, and your convulsions worsened.

“If you have any compassion for your own reputation, crown princess, you will follow me quietly to my chambers. Should you refuse, I will have no reservations carrying you. You are my woman, and this is my realm. No one would question the sight.”

“I — I will walk...on my own...please.”

The legion of handmaidens preparing his chamber for the night were banished with one dismissive flick of his wrist. He locked the ebony doors polished to a smooth board and carved, behind you. You stood steps past the threshold, hands bound in front of you, possibly breathing the last few breaths you ever would have the privilege to.

“Be at ease,” Pharaoh said, fighting the impatient edge which threatened your survival with just its manifestation in thin air. You wouldn’t oblige; you wouldn’t speak, holding your eyes to the ground. “Very well,” he then said almost indignant. “I will not waste time with needless pleasantries. Your bid to escape tonight is a direct insult to the graciousness with which this kingdom has welcomed you, and tended to you. You have insulted me, and by extension the gods themselves.”

You stuttered an apology, and as if a vexed by those words, as if you had compelled him towards you, he came storming forward. He seized your upper arm and you dissolved again to a paroxysms of whimpers, cowering before his imposing height.

“Who put you up to this cheap trick?” he bellowed shaking you. “I will not tolerate mutiny in my court. Disloyalty — there is no greater crime than disloyalty, do you understand? So I ask you again, who plotted this treason?”

You shook your head no, a bleating escaping your throat.

“Was is it your uncle? That babbling fool of a cousin?” You persistently shook your head. “Tell me at once!”

Your knees surrendered, and as if a folding tent, you collapsed. His hand anchoring below your arm; he would not allow it. Holding you suspended in his clutches, he seemed to study your for a long moment. “Was it of your own design?”

You closed your eyes.

  
Held up against him, your lips quivered. “I’ve — I’ve committed — committed a sin worthy of death.”

“Indeed you have,” he said, voice a low hush bleeding with betrayal. He sorted a strand of hair obscuring your face, tucking it behind your ear. “What about me was so...repulsive to you?”

Again you shook your head, and something inside of him broke, and bled entirely. His fingers circling one slender arm he dragged you through his vast chamber; past its centre, the rough tile boasting a wheel of lotus and papyrus carved into the ground, depicting some sort of hunt in the reeds of the riverbank, past the gilded furnishings, up the three raised steps to his canopied bed, the translucent curtains blowing from the open wind escaping in from the Nile.

Forcing you to sit on its edge, he knelt by your feet. From his robes he unveiled three golden bracelets; the first embellished with a circular dial, its centre carved with various symbols you did not recognize, the second a variation of the first, its embellishment embossed golden beetle polished to a shining gloss, the third held a dial laid with a blue resin and set with glittering gemstones as if stars, in some sort of connecting order.

“It is tradition,” he said calmly, unclasping the first bangle, “that men bind the feet of their wives to prevent them from running away. As punishment for attempting to leave their husband, as you did just now, it is within my right to cut off your feet.” His gaze lifted to meet eyes widened with horror. You would not dare even breathe. He smiled wryly. “I have no intention of doing that to you. Instead — ” he clipped the first bangle around your ankle; it seemed it was meant to serve the purpose of an anklet “ — you will wear this to symbolize the tradition, and who you belong to.”

You despised him for those words, denoting you as if some slave to be owned, or worse, some lifeless object to be possessed. Against his unwavering grip, you defied him, thrashing your feet in a desperate attempt to break free of his restraints. “Hold still,” he ordered with heavy brows, as he secured the second. “This, to symbolize your status as my betrothed.” He fixed the third — and though you would never admit, the most beautiful of the three. “The last a symbol of our union; endless, and as vast as the night sky.”

“Why would you do it?” you whispered. He raised an eyebrow, begging for clarification. “Why would you still want me? Release me, and pursue a deserving young woman who would devote herself to your majesty.”

“You,” he rasped, rising to his feet, “will learn to devote yourself to me, as my lover, and my wife.”

“No!” you cried, tears springing from reddened eyes. “No.” You fell to your knees, splayed over the stairs at his feet. “I’m begging you, I can’t live like this. Please...spare me.”

“What about me is so repulsive to you?” he roared. A long silence stretched as his voice settled against the walls.

“The stories I’ve heard about you, crossing the desert. After last night I did not want to believe them...”

“So then why?”

“I — earlier...this afternoon...I witnessed the fate which befell Charmles.”

“I did that for you,” he interjected. “I assassinated that filth to protect my woman’s honour. What about that was so difficult to accept?”

“And your orders for those other women, the pitiful creatures, they’ve had nothing to — ”

“You’re not other women,” he said, “you’re my woman, and I’ve been nothing if not kind and generous to you since you’ve entered my court. I vowed to devote myself to you; only you, for as long as I live. I don’t understand your scruples about this relationship.”

In a small voice you delivered, “I’m afraid of you, your Majesty. I’m afraid of leaving this world young, of meeting my end at the end of your sword, some day when you tire of me.”

“You’ve betrayed me,” Pharaoh reminded, “and I am yet to form an opinion contradicting what I made of you when I first laid my eyes upon you, and then again last night. I assure you, you could do nothing worse if you tried, to turn me on you.”

He ordered for you to stand, and when your limbs robbed of substance refused, he lifted you with a pair of arms roped around your quivering form.

“I have no intention of harming you,” he assured upon sensing your hopeless convulsions. He released you, allowing the bed to break you fall. “I cannot fathom your reservations into sensible thoughts. Sort your mind out of them, because I do not have the patience for your childish misconceptions.”

Leaving you to ponder those words he marched to the far window, leaning forward over the sill as if to empty himself of his burdens and frustrations.

Drawing your form into a ball, you allowed the tears to pour free, wetting the sheets and staining your swelling face.

Peering over his shoulder he demanded silence, and with difficulty you subdued your weeping to muted sobs. Over the hours they would stubbornly mount to a fever pitch however, forgetting his warnings; and he too disposed of himself to his paperwork in the next room, immune to your misery.

 

You refused the persistent handmaiden who at Pharaoh’s orders fussed endlessly about dinner. At your unrelenting perseverance, Pharaoh himself made an appearance. “Eat something,” he entreated in earnest. “You need to keep your strengths up.”

You wouldn’t answer him. You would not — to the agitation of the handmaiden — even look at him as he addressed you.

“Suit yourself,” he growled. He ordered the handmaiden to see herself out after the oil lanterns were extinguished.

Locking his bed chamber door once more, he slipped in beside you into bed.

“It cannot be helped...your convictions of me,” he said from beside you in the dark. You could recognize the contours of his features the pouring moonlight drew in slivers of frazil-silver. “For your own sake, I advise you abandon whatever reservations you may have tonight, or be prepared to toil under their burden the rest of your life.” He paused in consideration. “This is,” he insisted, “what will become the rest of your life.”

…

You woke up to streaming sunlight. The golden light danced with some ethereal glow against the sandstone. The royal palace in the morning you thought was reminiscent of something from the realm of the gods, or at least what you imagined of such a realm.

You could feel the sheets beneath you shift, and there was a warmth enclasping your back. It was then you grew conscious that you did not recognize the empty bed sprawled before you. Muscular arms embraced you and you were turned to find Pharaoh hovering above you.

“Sleep well?” he husked, his damp hair pouring forward, stray drops splashing on to your cheeks. The first you noticed of him was the fresh scent of the woods underlined with faint traces of spice; it was earthly and sharp. It was enticing you, so you held your breath.

He was baring his sculpted chest; it was the first you had seen him in such a state of undress. Innocently you closed your eyes. You felt his fingertip trace the curve of your ear, tucking back your hair. “It pleases me that you were comfortable princess, but I wouldn’t make a habit of staying in bed until the sun is at its zenith,” he said in your ear.

You held your breath under him.

“Why do you look as if you’re about to cry whenever your eyes encounter mine?” he questioned after a long moment.

You said nothing.

“Do you think my treatment of you is unfair?”

You still elected for silence. You wouldn’t open your eyes.

“I see. That is regrettable. I wanted to have this conversation in more amiable circumstances but it appears crown princess you do not share those sentiments.

I told you when you entered my court that you could not be the betrothed of another god. So I asked for your name. As my betrothed, the future queen to this nation, you cannot hold onto anything that belongs to a foreign court. I must ask you disrobe.”

Your eyes flashed open at the declaration. “You want — want me to strip my robes...in front of you?”

“Do not look so appalled,” Pharaoh ordered. “With a few exceptions, you will not retain anything belonging to the Holy Empire.”

“You can’t!”

“What I have allowed you to keep has been arranged in the corner of the room. You will find your books and your alchemical instruments there. Your handmaidens are waiting to assist you in changing.”

“I mistook you,” you cried as he pulled away. “I mistook you for being kind!”

“I will be outside,” he said lowly, descending the shallow steps; sauntering into the next room.

As the handmaidens filed in, willing yourself against the headboard, you disposed of yourself to this fate. At least you were alive, you negotiated with the bitterness which washed over and over again on your tongue.

Irene hastened to your side ahead of the other maids. “My princess,” she cried in a hushed whisper, reaching for both your hands, “why has he moved you here? Did the tyrant harm you?”

You gripped her hands tighter. “He’s violated me,” you said, small voice thick with tears. “He has taken away everything.”

“We’ve been advised to dress you in Khemetian court attire,” she said shaking her head. “He is truly depraved.”

“Whatever do you...” your voice thinned and vanished as another handmaid held up a white gown. It only had one cascading sleeve sewn to it, the diaphanous fabric pleated and cinched at the waist before flowing to meet the floor. The sun rays from the window seeped right through. “Is that an undergarment?” you inquired.

“No your highness,” the maid said unperturbed in the slightest, “it is a gown constructed of the finest silk.”

“I will not wear that.”

“His Majesty insists,” an older maid insisted with her head bowed low.

You raised your voice. “I am not his whore! I will not wear that!”

“Milady please,” a third attempted to interject. You had left the bed now, walking as if in a trance towards the dress held up on display. Your fingertips brushed the fabric; you’ve seen onion skins more concealing.

“I will not wear that,” you repeated hysterically, shaking your head. “I am not a whore who’s body will be put on display in a manner so shameful!”

The native handmaidens seemed nonplussed, your concerns bewildering them. “It’s an exquisite gown your highness. I’ve been told it was hand woven by his majesty for you in the purest silk from the East.”

“I will not wear something so indecent!” you shrieked incensed, tearing the dress from the servants outstretched hands to the ground.

In the doorway, ushered by one of the handmaidens who had parted from the group, Pharaoh appeared.

“What is with this commotion?” he demanded, marching up to you.

  
“You can imprison me, strip me of my identity and my belongings, but you will not persuade me with your threats to abandon my honour.”

“You have no other clothes,” Pharaoh reminded with smug satisfaction, “what do you plan to wear?”

“I will wear this dress and this cape day in and day out like a beggar if I must, but I will not sink to the level of your willing whore!”

Past the congregation of servants transfixed by your outright insolence and disregard for his authority he stormed to stand before you, breath falling from inches above. His fingers clasped you shoulders; your breath catching in your throat at his smouldering glare. With one swift whisk, he tore the forest green cape from your form and dropped the two torn halves of the cape to the floor. He reached for your grey gown and you cowered. Snarling he produced a dagger from his robe, and before fear could spark in your mind, the blade ripped through the garment; leaving open gashes stretching the length from your neckline to your skirt. His blade would not once carve your skin as with lithe movements of his wrist he reduced the riding dress to a mess of rags.

“And now you have nothing,” he said.

It was then the succession of gasps from the servants settled.

Your chest was simmering with terror, soft sobs bubbling at your lips. You could not fathom tearing your eyes away from him as he stepped closer, wrapping the arm still clutching the dagger around you. His lips danced over your temple. “Calm yourself,” he ordered, stroking your back. You could feel the jewel hilt of his dagger tracing your spine. “Have a bath, it will help in bringing back your wits. Then get dressed. I will have breakfast prepared.”

You nodded against him. It was all you could bring yourself to do.

…

You returned to find the man you were forced to honour and obey for the rest of your life at his desk in the adjoining room, devoting himself to scrolls of papyrus sprawled with foreign characters.

You had begun considering whether such a life — a life spent devoting yourself to such a man was worth surviving at all.

The gold necklace wrapping your neck travelled past the valley of your chest to part at your waist, wrapping around it. The dress bared everything, and had it not been for the thick gathering of the skirt, it truly would have revealed everything.

You had your arms folded over your chest as you ascended the stairwell from the underground bathing chamber into his room. His words from the first day made sense to you now. That chamber you had bathed in truly had been the finest in Sepfuruna, for it had been his personal bathing chamber.

His gaze distracted from him paperwork to you at your silent footsteps. He appraised your appearance in the gown he had had crafted for you.

  
“It fits you,” he merely said in observance. That he himself struggled to focus his gaze over your exposed form eluded you in your own embarrassment.

He was met with a delicate bow of your head and eyes which would not meet his. “Your grace is immeasurable,” you returned dejected, his earlier display playing relentlessly in your mind.

You wondered if he had lusted to see that blade carve through your skin as it had the Ashenvale Prince, only to be otherwise persuaded by some mysterious motivation moments prior. The thought sent a shudder through your body.

“Breakfast — ”

“You care too diligently for me your grace, but I’m not hungry.”

“You haven’t eaten since yesterday,” he objected, following you as you plodded to seek sanctuary under the concealing linen sheets of the bed.

“I have no appetite.”

“I ordered for the mangoes and mangosteens you enjoyed the night before to be prepared for you.”

“I have no appetite,” you repeated monotonously, and his eyes clouded with ire.

“Be that way,” he sneered. “If starvation is what it will take to discipline you from your childish tendencies, then so be it.”

In his wake you sunk into the sheets, eyes remarking every position of the sun in the sky through the large window beyond, until it had sunken completely below the stretching Nile.

Pharaoh had allowed you no visitors, which would only have been your handmaidens, and had ordered total isolation. He had placed himself on arrest within the chamber, only leaving for the remaining three of the four cleanings he was obligated to do throughout the day.

Various runners frequented the chambers through the day, delivering royal decrees and messages to and from the royal court to him.

Lunch passed by much in the same way breakfast had, and by dinner, Pharaoh had abandoned his attempts to convince you against your stubbornness entirely.

It was maddening and suffocating, and a miserably lonely existence.

The nightgown was linen, and it afforded you some shred of dignity, though it was dreadfully short. It seemed you would be forced to abandon the conservative nature with which you were raised in the Holy Empire.

The anklets were heavy, and under the bed you had hidden the small, hopping canary.

He came to kneel beside you in the late evening hours; you were watching the cold sky beyond the window, seated on the stone steps leading to the bed. You would not realize that it was unheard of for a Pharaoh to kneel beside anyone; he did it so frequently before you.

You trembled as he sat by you, so he stripped himself of the dagger he carried on his person, and placed it on the bed above your head. He reached for your hands, which disappeared completely in the clasp of his much larger ones.

  
“Your misery is self inflicted,” he told you. “I have the means to make you perfectly happy beside me.”

You released a laborious breath, it quavered against the still air. He released your hands.

“Your sentiments are yours,” he said roughly. “I will only advise you that I am in the midst of preparing the ceremony for our union, I — ”

You had known it was coming but suddenly your insides...they bled. They bled and they flooded you. You had decided that this was enough. You could tolerate it no longer. Survival, it was a pragmatic justification for what you had — perhaps unbeknownst to your naive self — always desired; self-fulfilment and incandescent happiness. Now more than ever you wanted it; desperately. It was the dream you always dreamt.

But dreams were often forgotten at the break of dawn under the weight of shouldering reality.

You reached blindly for the dagger he had surrendered, unsheathing it in one flawless draw. He prepared to defend himself but you pressed the tip to your own chest. “Drive it through,” you begged of him. “Your majesty I beg of you, carve my flesh and put me out of my misery. Tear me to slivers in the most painful way if it will satiate the betrayal I have forced you to feel but I cannot live this way.” Tears were staining rosy cheeks dying olive skin. “I cannot live my whole life like this.”

“Put down the blade,” he said with much apprehension. “I have no intention of doing any such thing to you. I only wish to make you happy here.”

You instead pressed it deeper. “I’m much too cowardly to see it through myself so — ”

Vision obscured by your curtain of tears, he reached with both hands to apprehend yours. Under his iron grip you could do nothing. Skillfully he wove the dagger out of your fingers, and tucked it back into his robe, having sheathed the weapon.

“Being my wife is not a punishment,” he admonished. “It is the highest of honours I have deprived every woman ever offered to me, who has thrown themselves at me...and every woman in this kingdom. It is an honour which will never be bestowed upon any other woman after you.”

You had descended into a state of madness. Why, you asked, were you not allowed to live when you desired to; told to die when you wanted to live, and deprived of the privilege of death which seemed a simple privilege every creature ever born was freely granted, the one instance you had wanted to see the end.

“We will wed, and you will stand beside me as the queen to this nation. You will learn loyalty and devotion, you will be my lover, and will bear me my children — ”

“Children?” you screamed. “Bear children — I...”

“You will pass on those values to our children,” he continued calmly, “and you will serve me faithfully. History will remember you as a fair and wise queen.”

You were inconsolable.

…

You could not remember how you had fallen asleep, or how you had come to be in another dress which bared all of you to him. As if some broken doll, you sat on the bed the next morning; the white curtains which had once sailed in the wind stripped from the bed canopy, along with any other object Pharaoh deemed could be utilized in taking your own life.

You no longer took precaution in concealing your breasts under the flimsy white dress which served no purpose but arousing the depraved tyrant. He swallowed deeply each time his eyes wandered to you. And his eyes...those beastly eyes, they scorched to charcoal.

He stood very closely to you this morning as he appraised you, head tilted; lost in thought. You allowed the rough graze of his fingertips over your nipples, having submitted yourself entirely. They hardened to his touch, and a jolt of lightening ravaged your spine.

He would explore no further, satisfied by your response. You met him with a lifeless expression, and forced yourself to ask if what he saw pleased him. He seemed to carry a certain fondness for your hair; his fingers always wondered to sift through the tresses. Tucking them behind your ears he responded, yes, you pleased him a great deal.

How could someone so beautiful be so cruel?

Once again you refused to eat, though he would tempt you each meal with the rarest of delicacies.

What about him was so repulsive? It continued to trouble him, and the distraction led to the waste of many scores of papyrus, where he with an absent mind would find himself writing only your name and his thoughts which refused to leave you. Something which could have burned so beautifully, he pondered, was it too late to salvage it?

He returned from the bathing chambers that afternoon to you nestled against the nook of the windowsill, staring absently into the Nile. As he drew nearer he understood your attention was elsewhere; slender fingers twisting the golden dial of a wind-up toy. You watched with a fallen face the hopping canary as it crossed the narrow sill. Though yours were tired eyes, he could discern the amusement the toy brought.

The young Pharaoh recognized the toy, for he had carved it himself, in the earlier days of his reign, or perhaps before it, when time was more abundant.

As he came to stand beside you, you hastened to hide the toy from view.

To the silken laugh which ripped from him, your eyes flickered up with a tinge of fear to study him. “I won’t take away your toy,” he said in a rough voice ground to convey kindness. You held the little bird closer to your chest, tears prickling the corners of your eye, unbelieving of his words. “Do you like the toy that much?”

You nodded, curling into yourself as if to cower further away.

“Where did you get it?”

You would only shake your head, whole body contorted to guard the small toy.

“I told you I would not take it away,” he rasped, gently running his palm over your hair — from your crown past your neck. “You do not need to tell me where you found it if you are unwilling.”

Your innocence was endearing, and perhaps, he surmised, if he was more forthcoming, you would be more receptive of him. So he silently drew a chair beside you, and wordlessly shared his presence. He would not say anything, and with the passing hours, he observed your guard weaken.

  
“If I could live again, I would become an actress,” you told him hours after he had grown convinced you would not speak.

“Why is that?” Pharaoh asked, intrigued. He ran his fingers through your hair, you allowed it, or so you liked to think.

“Because then,” you said, “I would be able to live and experience many lives. Live as much as I desire, and survive in each one...and perhaps even end those lives on my own terms, when I so pleased. Perhaps then I would be happy, in at least one.”

“You will find ways to be happy here,” he said. You had heard those words many times now, and each time you believed him less. “We will be happy here, and we will be happy together in the afterlife.” You didn’t believe in such things as the afterlife, you believed in reincarnation. And you hoped in your next life, you would become an actress. Whether you had to cross flaming embers or walk over rose thorns it would not matter. You would become an actress.

Another number of hours passed, and the young emperor quietly guarded your side. You didn’t know when he had reached for your hand, or with what thought you had not resisted.

“Why did you try to run away?” he inquired in a tone so low it hardly manifested.

“Because I am afraid of you.” There was no sense in lying.

“Your handmaidens found the sigil with the image of a stone tower, within your chambers. I recognized it as the symbol of your cousin. Were you hoping to receive his help in your escape? Or were you plotting to contact your lord uncle in hopes he would grant you passage back to the island of Genova?

“You are nothing to Great Emperor Delphini,” Pharaoh said dismissively. “You think you are still his niece? He gave you to me without a thought. You are nothing more to him than a peace offering he has cast away. If your lord uncle decides to make war on the Black Lands, then your presence will not dissuade him from it.”

You had confessed too easily. “You don’t believe me,” you said daintily. “You are interrogating me.”

“I am only telling you that it is an inescapable fact of life,” he persisted. The conversation had split to become two; he speaking of the future, and you plotting for the present. Neither would notice, and he would continue. “For all your Delphini blood, you have no family there. I am your family now. Your loyal servants reside in this and all other Khemetian cities. Your people are the people of the Two Lands. You are nothing to the Holy Empire, nothing but a threat to those who covet Emperor Delphini’s rights and riches.”

“Are you intent on cornering me like this? By showing me that I have been abandoned, do you think I would run to you, Pharaoh? Asking to be held?”

He faltered as he met your eyes. He had never experienced anything so transfixing. Before you, he found himself disarmed, at least for a moment, unable to continue his offence.

“I must apologize,” he said patiently. “For my harshness. My words were unkind.”

“You’ve said your peace, Pharaoh, I — ”

“I am not finished.”

At that you quieted, pulling away slightly at the coldness of his voice. Still, he held your hand.

“I want you to understand,” he continued, looking at you intently. “Family is not only blood, or who you are related to. Take care that you do not cast aside the family and people you have gained for kin who will barely know the queen you shall become. There is no where for you to run, every land you will escape to belongs to me. Remember, your loyalty is to me now.”

“Why are you so invested in this?” you pleaded in a murmur. “You don’t know me, or my lord uncle, or my cousin Ramsay. Who are you to say these things?”

“Who am I?” he echoed with a quiet laugh. “I am Pharaoh Nekhtsethenes. I am the Ruler of Two Lands, the High Priest of All Temples. I’ve taken my men to do battle in the name of our rightful heritage, for the sun god whom we have worshipped since the dawn of creation. All on the honouring of our oaths. I’m someone who has seen things you could not fathom. Spilt blood has flowed deeper through this desert than the Nile; brother killing brother, son killing father, all in the name of power. Blood is not thicker than water, never be mistaken.”

For a very long time you seem to accept those words, and he drew closer to you. You would not object this. Then in a small voice you asked, “Why do you do it?...War I mean. What is the lure of murder?”

“It is not mindless slaughter,” he answered, “war is a purifier. It breaks the weak and hones the strong, purges love and replaces it with despair, ruins families and homes as much as anything does. Take care that it does not break you. What is dead may very well never die, but a broken man often dies the slowest.”

“I do not pretend to understand you, Pharaoh.”

“Consider this a lesson, then. The man with a sword to your front is easily feared, but equally recognized. The man with a dagger at your back is less likely known, but far more dangerous. Your lord uncle, Emperor Delphini XV, is a dangerous man not because of his Honour Guardsmen or his moon god, but because of his cunning. When he was your age, he committed the deeds that earned him his name, Reaper of the Tides. That old lion has only grown more cunning and vicious in age. History shows that he does not suffer his enemies gladly.”

“You are speaking of more than just the man,” you spoke eyes fallen over his thumb absently stroking the back of your palm.

“I’m speaking of the war, of putting reason above emotion. Your life is no longer yours to give. Should you have escaped, and my enemies happened upon you, yours and mine own people would suffer the consequences.”

“I don’t understand what you have seen on those battle fields, that convinces you war is purifier. You said you’ve seen love replaced with despair and families torn to sunder, what is so noble in such a cause?”

“I’ve seen the guts of young men split open over desert sands, dragged as if dregs of butchered meat across dunes and hills by blood hounds. On the battle field there is no difference between man and beast. I’ve witnessed old men stripped of their dignity at an age they should be closing their eyes peacefully with their wives and family. There is nothing more hideous.

“In the end, all those who are meant to survive, do. Those who are truly worthy and deserving. So I say war is a purifier. It hones the strong and wastes the weak.”

The image turned your stomach, and sour bile rose your throat. There was nothing in you to empty, but bent over, you heaved. At your violent paroxysms of retching, Pharaoh dove forward for you, holding you up as your form threatened to tumble to the floor.

And in his arms you hung limply, the life draining out of your weary body.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! References of dresses Pharaoh makes her wear. For the next few chapters I’m basically going off of Valentino’s SS16 (I think?) collection so bear with me.
> 
> Dress 1: https://pin.it/tuusbpzk5mnpov3ljvzzu2q2ojsy  
> https://pin.it/3ljvzzu2q2ojsy
> 
> Dress 2: https://pin.it/wgo2m5hti5ddzy
> 
> As always, do let us know your thoughts!


	5. Poisoned Chalice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is DJ Est of the popular radio program "Ironic Tunes", spicing up the notes section for this chapter!
> 
> Remember when, in the last chapter, there were comments along the lines of "how patient Pharaoh is compared to CEO"?
> 
> I have a song for you.
> 
> ♫ ~Why do all  
> the bad feelings  
> Keep coming true~ ♫

“Her pulse is...very weak Your Majesty,” the elderly healer said with consternation clouding his expression. “...Is there a possibility that Her Highness may be expecting?”

Pharaoh glanced over at your ladies in waiting kneeled by the foot of the ascending steps; necks craned as if inquisitive giraffes. He ordered they see themselves out, annoyed by their meddlesome curiosity which knew no bounds.

In their wake Pharaoh returned his attention to the healer, his fingers pressed attentively against your wrist. “Should that not be something you should be advising me?”

“How much,” the healer pressed in a cautious drawl, “of your seed did you give her Your Majesty? In higher doses...the potency can be lethal.”

“The princess is a virgin,” Pharaoh flared, “I have not laid a hand on her. Have you grown senile in your old age?”

The elderly physician cowered from the emperor’s wrath, taking a moment to gather his senses which had scattered under that cerulean glare. “The pulse of a woman with child,” he attempted to explain, “and that of someone weary from travel or malnourished is difficult to discern in the early stages. Has she shown signs of physical distress? A sudden loss of appetite or abdominal pain for example?”

“She has not eaten since the day she arrived here.”

The healer selected his words carefully. “If she has been...disobedient, sire, even still, not allowing her to eat is...it may lead to diseases of the blood and possibly even complicate her chances of conceiving when you do lay with her.”

“The choice to starve was one of her own and not a punishment of my design,” Pharaoh declared through a clenched jaw. “Her condition was self-inflicted.”

“Not necessarily,” the elder considered, afraid of what his diagnosis may in turn unleash on you, “months of travel and poor hygiene can weaken the body of a young woman in its own way. Her condition is fragile and should be tended to with the utmost care.”

“Your recommendation?”

“I will brew her a herbal potion to ingest three times a day after her meals. Have her servants feed her the herbal cakes I will roll, with the water boiled with the popped kernels of rice. As it will be bitter have her swallow it with fresh honey. This should be taken before her meals. It should settle her stomach and balance the humours of her body.”

“How long do you expect for her health to be restored?”

“Restored, Your Majesty, that is difficult to say, as it depends on how well Her Highness is tended to, how well she eats and many other — ”

“I don’t care for a sermon,” Pharaoh interjected sharply. “Are you suggesting I wait days? Weeks? Months?”

“A few days should be sufficient to recover fully, if my recommendations are followed scrupulously,” the elder answered quickly. “Though the fainting spell should wear off by daybreak. Applying a cold cloth to her forehead would help the recovery also.”

“Is there no faster remedy?” Pharaoh was an impatient man.

“There...is, Your Majesty. Cupping, the practice of applying suction to stimulate circulation and balance the body’s humours...” The healer spoke with much reluctance, and Pharaoh inquired after his qualms on the method. “It may very well mar Her Highness’ skin with unsightly bruises.”

“Then it is out of the question,” Pharaoh said reaching for your hand laid by your side. He caressed it with a careful stroke of his thumb; a look of longing plaguing his eyes narrowed in calculation. “I will not allow her skin to be blemished out of impatience. The potion, how soon can it be brewed?”

“Within the hour Your Majesty.”

“Very well.”

…

The palace sentinel was formally allowed entry soon after the elderly royal physician left the chambers. "Your Majesty. I come bearing the list of Blue Militia candidates as you had requested from Chief Inquisitor Omar, a message from White Court Councilman Sagi, and the butcher's bill from our outpost to the East."

Pharaoh took the proffered scrolls without acknowledgement, and absently dismissed the messenger. The Inquisitor bowed low in response before silently disappearing out the heavy ebony door.

To the side he placed the list of candidates and the letter from the councilman; those could be reviewed at his leisure. Pharaoh swiftly undid the knot securing the papyrus scroll which contained the report on the latest casualties suffered by his forces, whom were stationed at the fortress located across the mountains to the East. As he unrolled it, a tiny swatch of linen fell out of its hiding place and fluttered to the floor. It was dyed a light green colour.

Pharaoh immediately recognized it as a coded message from his spies stationed within Sepfuruna, an urgent request for an audience. The timing could not be any more suspicious. Much has happened since your arrival in his court, and Pharaoh was halfway convinced the spies had caught wind of a plot targeting you or yours.

As he descended the steps to his magnificent underground bathing chamber and met with the handmaiden who had finished preparing for the last of the four necessary cleansing he needed to take this day, he was not disappointed.

"Your Majesty. Beware the poisoned chalice that shall be offered to the crown princess, which threatens to send her to the hereafter before her time," murmured the handmaiden with her head bowed, her face curtained by her fair hair.

"Who is responsible for this farce? Tell me," Pharaoh demanded lowly, pacing. He was much too distracted by his rage to begin disrobing himself. His thoughts were ablaze with names, faces, and possible avenues of retribution.

"One of us had vanished from his post, the same night Her Highness was brought to your royal chambers," revealed the handmaiden. "His body was not retrieved, but his logbooks were still secured. His last known movements were to make inquiries into the whereabouts of three persons of interest, on the night of the feast held in honor of the restored relations between Khemet and Delphini. Namely, White Court Councilman Sagi, Red Court Councilman Zahur, and Vizier Sennefer."

…

Your eyes flickered open to tall ceilings held up by stone pillars; outside, the wind was grazing sandstone. Day had come.

A dampness was lifted from your forehead, a palm resting briefly where the cold clothe had been. You matched your gaze with looming deep ocean blue as they eclipsed your vision. They drowned you completely in their depths as he pressed his lips onto your cheek.

You tried not to see, but it would be impossible. You could not avoid him, the way one could not live without seeing the blue sky.

“It is no longer your choice,” the uneasy Pharaoh said in a husk, still leaned over you, “how you govern your health.” His arms were anchored on either side of you. “I don’t know princess, if you have any regard for your health, but I will no longer leave to your discretion whether you choose to eat your meals or starve. You will eat, and you will adhere to the recommendations of your attending physician.

“I will no longer entertain the foolishness of your immaturity just because you are young. You are to be a Queen, and I will forge you from dust to be a Queen worthy of sharing my throne if I must.”

The degree of concern he took up with the issue, to the extent of Pharaoh attending to you himself, was bewildering to the waiting handmaidens. In the young and repressed minds of the women, you and he had done unspeakable things; exhausting you to the point of collapse, and now you would bear him an heir.

He helped you against a pillow to lean on the headrest.

“Your grace,” you murmured, voice only resembling rags of its former self, “is immeasurable.”

He was growing tired of those words, rather, he was growing tired of the insincerity of them. He nurtured an acute abhorrence for disingenuous things.

“Do not bow your head to me,” he said, “I will not accept your respects, and you will be forced to hold yourself that way until I do. And I never will. That is what formality dictates here.”

“Your Majesty,” you acknowledged, and with the chant, your head dipping forward from years of tired, practiced habit. You lifted only your eyes to him, your agitation plain.

“One time, I will pretend I did not see it.”

  
As he turned away, calling for one of your servants, you lifted your head; your glassy eyes unnerving to the handmaidens looking on.

The older maid returned with a tray of roasted pheasant stuffed with wild mushroom, steamed vegetables and wild rice, while a younger one with rippling flaxen hair offered Pharaoh another, holding a platter of dark pellets, a short glass flask of dark honey and a single chalice of clear liquid.

Pharaoh’s fingers wrapping your chin, he coerced you to open your mouth. Through your open lips he placed a pellet which at once tasted bitter and of salt on your tongue. “Swallow it,” he instructed; first without explanation, tipping the goblet of liquid which tasted like oil infused water against your lips.

The bitter capsule the size of a small marble gouged the walls of your throat as you swallowed. You would have retched, had the thought of tasting it again on your palate not discouraged you.

The hardened globule he then explained was a concoction of dried herbs, as he scooped a teaspoon of honey from the flask; the water the stock water of popped rice kernels. It had been prescribed by the royal physician.

He held out the spoonful to your lips, and at your frustrating hesitation, thrust it forcefully through. With a pointed clink, he set the silver spoon back against the open rim of the flask.

The flaxen haired maiden bowed and took her leave, and Pharaoh’s attention shifted to the older servant. He ordered for the tray to be set over your lap.

“Eat,” he commanded, “or it shall be fed to you, and you will not enjoy my — ” he paused, seemingly selecting carefully his words, “— methods.”

Lifting a leg of the roasted bird, you brought it your lips; chewing, you had no will to swallow. Swallowing was an arduous task, and the rich fare was heavy on your stomach. Having picked the plump thigh of most its meat, you dropped the stripped bone almost bare over the silver plate. Taking a long swallow of the tart fruit juice, you pushed the tray away from you.

“What is the root of your displeasure?” Pharaoh asked, evidently reserving himself from doling out a scathing remark at how you ate as if the meal was poisoned.

“I would rather eat without an audience,” you replied, intending him to be the subject of your request. Your entreaty easily misunderstood, he instead turned to your handmaidens, dismissing them from his chambers.

“Does that alleviate your discomfort?”

It did not. In fact, it had accomplished the very opposite. Still you nodded your head, weary of the consequences.

“Then eat,” he ordered, the attitude he assumed, crossing his arms before him, only worsening your appetite. It was difficult to swallow when fear webbed thick in your throat.

Gingerly, you focused your attention over the steamed vegetables, carving the leaves of cabbage to narrow strips as if you were preparing to feed an infant. It was plain to anyone watching that you held no intention of eating the ravaged vegetable.

“If the greens aren’t to your liking, finish the meat,” Pharaoh suggested, practicing the most restraint to adhere to a tone less openly irascible.

“If I take another bite, I fear I may be sick,” you told him.

“You’re already sick because you have not been eating,” he defied, paying no heed to how your features twisted in response to the rising bile.

At his persistence you reached for the wild mushroom pouring out of the pheasant. You would admit, the sharp spices and herbs seasoning the broiled mushrooms were pleasant, and overwhelmed the bitterness on your palate.

It would elude you, Pharaoh’s contentment as he watched you, explaining to you in great detail of how it was by law, forbidden for commoners to consume mushrooms; a delicacy reserved exclusively for the high-borns. They held to them many medicinal properties, he advised, though a rare treat, and he had sent hunters to gather them in the marshes all night. He wished for nothing more than to see you in recovered health.

“Your grace,” you murmured, “is immeasurable. And for having inconvenienced you, please accept my sincerest apologies.”

“I tire of your compliments of my grace,” he merely said in response, leaving your side in favour of staring out the window at the great Nile; his hands clasped behind his back.

As he returned to feed you your medicine, the creases in his expression had eased. On a stone spoon, he held to you some bitter tonic. You looked to the small bowl in his other hand which held more.

“It likely tastes worse than you imagine,” he said to your surprise. At the stunned expression in your dark eyes, he smirked. “Did you expect me to lie in order to coerce you into it? You’ll learn on your first spoonful regardless of my assurance, and you will still have a few more left still.

“You will find,” he said, speaking your name with some tenderness which was displaced in that sentence oozing arrogance, “I am nothing if I am not an honest man.”

Somehow you appreciated the quality. And you leaned in allowing him to place the spoon in between your lips. Shuddering at the taste which was a far cry from the nectar of some sweet fruit, you asked for the bowl he held in his hand. Bringing the bowl to your lips, you swallowed the acerbic cordial in one strained sip; your eyes held tightly closed to brace yourself.

“Good girl,” he husked with a curl of his lip, administering you with some unfamiliar sensation. Leaning forward he pressed his thumb against the corner of your lip, wiping away at the excess which had dribbled in your haste to swallow the portion.

And for a moment so brief, that you would later question if it had been anything more than a figment of your own imagination, you wondered of what could have been, if you had met him in a different lifetime, as a different person.

…

The dress that day was less revealing, if only by a hair’s difference. The fabric was not as diaphanous, though it still revealed to him the traces of your form; where the pigments of your skin grew darker or lighter, or your contours raised and fell, the ivory gown left nothing of the sort to the imagination. The neckline plunged so far down that it exposed your stomach, and the flaring skirt, marked meticulously with folds as if an oriental fan, opened twice at the front, defeating the purpose of its length; your legs exposed to your thighs with each steps — to your hips if you were not cautious.

Pharaoh emerged through the chamber of his study as your handmaidens were fastening the last few securing knots. He held no reservation in brazenly allowing his ravaging gaze to wander your form.

As he approached, your maids fell away. With a flick of his indicolite eyes, he banished them from the chamber.

“Your complexion worries me,” he admitted, brushing the back of his fingers over your sunken cheeks. “Is there anything to be done to lift at the very least, your spirits?”

“Of the five days I’ve been here,” you said, “I’ve been confined to Your Majesty’s chambers for four of them. Back in the Empire I’m accustomed to spending much more my time outdoors. I think if Your Majesty would allow me a walk, I would feel more at home...here.” To call this place home, you had been reluctant, though you hoped the expression would afford you leverage in your request.

“Very well,” Pharaoh conceded, much to your astonishment, though you would soon learn nothing won so easily would be granted with the ideal conditions. “I will accompany you to the palace gardens,” he said. The tone in his voice was a herald that his offer was not to be bargained with, so you accepted.

He retreated for a moment into this study, and returned with his heavy ceremonial robes slung over his arm. Before the full-length silver mirror, he draped the purple cape over your narrow shoulders; the robes pooling behind you in a train stretching a few feet, you imagined weighed almost as much as you. Sauntering around you, he tugged the robes to conceal entirely your chest, a predatory gaze animating his blue eyes.

…

Leaving the chambers, a procession of handmaidens your shadow, and Pharaoh your guide, it had never been more palpable your status as his ward.

You had travelled the desert, prepared to dispose yourself as a willing concubine, and yet living and breathing the reality was punishing; never having hoped to captivate this much of Pharaoh’s notice.

Paralleling the passageway, the Nile was in full bloom with amethyst lilies. He supported your small frame with a steadying arm.

“I can walk fine on my own, Your Majesty,” you said, only then deferring your attention to him.

He would not hear of it.

In that awkward embrace you walked the high-ceilinged halls of the palace, attracting gazes of bewilderment from his subjects; scribes, priests and councilmen alike as they struggled to fall to their knees before their king, and his betrothed cloaked in his official robes, having never before witnessed such a sight of intimacy from the son of Ra.

Through the towering gates, Pharaoh led you through a sandstone path lined heavily with nut and jujube trees to stand under a pavilion.

The royal gardens extended in every direction past the arches of the sandstone pavilion. Before you, a stone path cradling a lotus pond through its centre stretched to meet the Nile, punctuated only twice by sandstone bridges crossing over the water. It was the longest distance one could walk in the garden, one way. The desert sun seeped through the canopy of palm, young ebony, and myrtle trees in full bloom lining the path, breaking into a kaleidoscope of golden shadows; illuminating the red orbs ornamenting the pomegranate trees in between as if they were festival lanterns. Occasionally the pouring branches of a willow swept the stone walkway, tangling in the bushes of white roses and mignonettes stretching their necks for a morsel of escaping sunlight under the thicket. Brilliantly hued purple irises and cornflowers as blue as Pharaoh’s eyes were harder to encounter amongst the overgrown shrubs of white ivy and magenta lychnis, but where they rose their majestic heads above the greenery, they demanded awe.

In the distance, an iridescent greenhouse basked in morning sunlight, reflecting the magnificent structures of His Majesty’s palace on their curving surfaces.

You never imagined a prison could be so beautiful; you supposed the story of the bird in the golden cage was fitting.

You had not fathomed so much flora and foliage could thrive in the dead of the desert; suddenly, the breathtaking oases of Mahaado’s tales were coming alive before your eyes.

“Paradise on earth.” Pharaoh called you away from your thoughts.

“I beg your pardon?”

“As I’m sure you’re aware, life is difficult to nurture in the desert. We have been blessed by the Nile, though it remains a challenge containing life in conditions as hot and arid as this. What you see before you — greenery in any capacity for our citizens remains a luxury, they imagine that at a glance, such a sight reveals to us a glimpse of the realm of our gods.

“Though don’t be mistaken, what you see before you isn’t a miracle, or an accidental happenstance of good fortune. It is the culmination of decades worth of painstaking agricultural development. Everything you see before you is intentional, and of careful construct.

“Never take such a sight for granted.”

“Your Majesty.” You would not admit it, or perhaps it was that you would not realize it, but his pragmatism and spirit for innovation was admirable and agreed with you over the mindless worship of gods.

He invited you into the garden, calling you away from the shade of the pavilion; reserving his pace to a slow stroll beside you. He allowed you to walk under the shelter of the twisting canopy, while beside you, he allowed the sunlight to graze his skin.

The handmaids continued to trail you from a distance.

“Is the change in scenery to your liking?” he asked, calling your name as he peered down for a glimpse of your expression.

“Yes,” you replied tersely, “quite.”

He released a tired sigh which spoke of his exasperations at your continued insistence on silence.

“If we are to be married, communication is imperative, in fact it is expected of you. So I ask you again, is the scenery to your liking?”

“I do not know how else to answer your question, Your Majesty.”

“Is calling me by my name an impossibility for you?” he thundered, halting, though he did not carry the patience to wait for an answer, as he continued speaking after only a moment’s pause. “Is there nothing else I can do to make your stay here more — bearable? If there is something you desire to eat, if you’re yearning for something from the Holy Empire, or from a land further still, you need only ask.”

“...You have already been more than considerate of all of my needs,” you told him in a small voice, recovering still from the outpour of ire you had inspired.

“Let us continue our walk,” he said, marching ahead.

With quick steps, you reached him; the challenge to match his long strides which were to him, surely quite leisurely. Observing your effort, he offered you his arm, inquiring if it would help relieve the strain of such a rigorous activity on your — in his words — frail body, following the recent ailments to your health.

You refused, much to his continually swelling displeasure, and he acknowledged your rejection with a grunt.

“It is within your rights, to ask me for all that you desire,” he said, staring ahead, “and it is within my means to provide you...everything.”

“I will accept the kindness in your offer.”

Silence stretched, and you came to a pause where the lotus pond rounded to boast a fountain, before it once again narrowed and continued on.

Pharaoh watched you with studious eyes, devoting himself in earnest to deciphering the inner workings of your mind beneath what your quietness would not to reveal to him. He was at once mystified and frustrated.

“I cannot still fathom your reservations of me,” he then began, “...nor your aversion for warfare. It is a necessary vice in the reality in which we exist.”

“So you admit that it is a vice?” you challenged, lifting your head to him. You extended your hand to feel the spray of the cool water over the pond’s raised edge.

“I have never sought to wash the sins of war in your eyes,” Pharaoh replied. “I have only ever tried to explain to you that war defeats greater evils than it creates. It is as I’ve said, a purifier. A means to an end. And at its foundation, so long as man exists, a reality I cannot avoid.”

You considered his words, rearranging them over and over in your mind in a way which would make it justifiable. In the end, instead of understanding, only words to its contradiction would come.

“My honored grandfather staged a war on the surrounding isles in the final years of his reign. Do you know of this?" you eventually asked.

Pharaoh nodded once. "The war which saw your lord uncle crowned as Great Emperor at the end of that five year campaign. The battle which earned him the name Reaper of the Tides took place during the third. In those days, no ship dared to cross your borders." He studied you carefully. "Your father left this world then."

"Yes. My mother was...heartbroken from the news," you said smoothly, leaving out your stepmother's hand in these events. There was no need to reveal too much. "I was born before my time, as they said the gods had decided that they needed to be together in the realm beyond. The crown prince too had succumbed to...some disease the soldiers brought back from the war before his seventh year. I was born without parents and our nation was left without an heir. My aunt was inconsolable and she didn’t last the year, I’m told. The frail child no one thought would survive was coronated as an infant.

“No one has ever asked me if I’ve wanted to bear the crown.” He listened attentively standing beside you. “And yet,” you said, “I always do.”

You turned and began to walk on. Your fingers tangling in a shrub of white roses, you halted again, looking up at him as he once again appeared by your side. “War took everything that was mine, before I even had it. It left me a step-mother who I was a burden to and a crown which got heavier every day.”

“War gave you your crown,” Pharaoh tried to convince you.

“Do you not see Your Majesty, that is the fault in all of you rulers, you men infatuated with war, you think the crown is a privilege.” You shook your head, wearing a wry smile as you continued to walk. “It was a legacy I did not ever desire, thrust upon me before I could consent.

“So I say I cannot fathom the glories of war. Have I afforded you better clarity of my convictions now?”

“All your experiences of war are second hand. You do not possess adequate insight of the battlefields and their front lines to form such unyielding sentiments.”

“You think my sentiments of my past are invalid?”

“I think they are too far removed from the true realities of war.”

“You speak to me as if you consider me a child,” you spoke raising your voice, turning to him.

He seemed unconcerned by this sudden break in character. “In my eyes, you’re no better,” he said, the playful curl of his lip insulting you.

“Then you shall never take my words seriously, and in consequence, I see no reason for you to hear my thoughts. It defeats the purpose of communication. Is communication by your definition me pandering to your every conviction, Your Majesty? Because if so, Khemet certainly has a very different and dare I say bizarre definition of what it means to communicate.”

The both of you had reached a standstill by now, intently holding each other’s gaze. The animosity poisoning your glare he met with budding intrigue.

  
“Raising your voice at me that way is sufficient,” he calmly said smirking, and your eyes fell, as if your gaze was suddenly bound by a pound of lead.

It would take a moment for the words to assemble in some sensible order in your mind.

“Forgive me Your Majesty.” You bowed deeply. “I misspoke in the heat of my emotions.”

He would only groan. “Seto.”

You held yourself where you had hunched to a bow. “I’ve committed a sin worthy of death,” you said.

“What does killing you accomplish?” he asked lowly, inflicting shivers through your spine. You didn’t think he ever rationalized his executions. By your shoulders he brought you to stand again at your full height. “In the future, do not do things you’ll be sorry for. Be mindful of your actions and take responsibility for them. Just as you cannot undo the stroke of a sword, you cannot erase the consequences of an untamed tongue. Once the deed is done, regret is an unnecessary burden. A Queen has no room for mistakes.”

“I’ll keep your words well.”

“My words to you earlier were not meant as insult.”

“You do not need to justify your words, sire.”

“Certainly not,” Pharaoh agreed.

“No.”

“Though to you, my future wife, I wish to afford you clarity. My words only stretched as far as to express that you are much younger than me. It was not a reflection of how I regard your maturity. You may have been raised all your life in a foreign court, but I wanted to inform you that your occasional impropriety resulting from unfamiliarity for our court etiquette and your — impulsive transgressions against me because you are young and do not know any better, I am willing to excuse.” For that long moment he spoke, his eyes changed — softened even — though you would not know as you were looking intently at his feet. “I have never held any intention of punishing you for it.”

As those feet commenced once again their stroll towards the river bank, you followed, sheltered under his long shadow.

Where they stopped atop the steep river bank, beside the white stone stairs descended to meet the river, as did you.

You cast your gaze over the black waters rising and falling as they broke against the lowest stone steps, coming and going, as if to guide you into their depths. You imagined the river curving through the channels lining the many quarters and temples of the palace, and escaping into the flood plains, seeping into the free earth, and flowing to the seas and oceans beyond.

Unwittingly, you had ventured to the edge.

“You could say the Nile is the mother to all of Khemet,” Pharaoh said. He stood behind you, his breath brushing the curve of your ear. From your peripheral you could see his fingers threading your hair. He lifted your tresses to him, leaning forward to the silky strands wrapping his slender fingers as if to breathe in your scent. The wind blew, lifting for a moment the weight of the unforgiving sun. “Life is invaluable in our land. To create life and to nurture it, it is a feat rivalling the gods. As you watch the Nile, from our chambers, or from the gardens, remember that of yourself.”

“As I watch the Nile, Your Majesty,” you spoke as if compelled by a trance, “I think of drowning in it.”

Seizing your arm he turned you to meet his eyes. “What?” You never knew deep blue could burn such a vivid crimson.

“How refreshing it would be to drown, and just be carried far away in those gentle waves.”

“Have you lost your mind woman?” he roared. “Do you regard your existence so lightly? Might I remind you, your life is no longer yours to give!”

Your derisive smile pushed the young emperor off a precipice already crumbling before that moment. “My life was never mine,” you responded elusively. This relentless feeling that he was perpetually standing before a stranger maddening.

“I don’t care for your riddles,” he seethed, tightening his grip. “Do not test me and hope to seek asylum under my vow to not fault you for your youth. Your petulance is not endearing and moreover unbecoming of the woman who this land’s people will look to for guidance. I will not stand for your continued mockery of me, this empire, and by extension the sanctity of marriage and motherhood.

“If you’re lacking sanity tell me so at once and I will have a physician attend to your malady.

“Your unyielding claim to which you will not even give a moment’s rest, accusing me of being some bloodless tyrant, I have difficulty believing considering your audacious disposition and hostile reception of me in spite of it.”

With each word, his grasp on your arm threatened to snap your bones. He wasn’t blind to the tears he had inspired, but he himself was no longer holding the reigns to the wrath you had summoned. Still, he released your arm, and you clasped your other hand over the throbbing appendage.

He threw his head up to the infinite firmament, exhaling quietly the words which might have otherwise continued their campaign in wounding you.

Taking stealthy footsteps backwards, you hoped to vanish with the river current, away from the assault of those whetted blue eyes.  
  
Step after careful step you took until the bank’s edge slanted away from under your feet, exposing you to the pull of the river. If you had fallen, the rush lasted but a fleeting moment, as muscle roped arms wrapped around your form, drawing you back in over the edge.

He did not acknowledge you as he held you. “Asim. Nepthys!” He instead summoned your handmaidens. “Escort Her Highness to the chambers,” he ordered, releasing you; his hold growing a fraction tighter in its last moments. “There is to be no diversions and she is to speak to no one,” he said. “The crown princess’s health has suffered from being under the sun for too long.”

With that he all but fled from your side, retracing back the course you had followed through the garden, storming under the arches of the pavilion, and disappearing beyond its shade.

Before his storming departure however, he had left chilling words in your ear under the guise of an affectionate uttering of a sweet nothing. “Falling from this height will not kill you, and when you do not drown, and you’re returned to me, you will wish that it had.”

You could hear your heart pulse across your face as you were ushered by your handmaidens, away from the river’s edge; growing more tremulous with each step as the severity of his words grew more lucid.

…

"Princess," said the young man kindly as you slowed to a halt before one another before the gates leading to the gardens. "You have been missed in court. It is good to see you again, and congratulations on your upcoming union with Pharaoh Nekhtsethenes!"

You needed a brief moment to recall the name of this young minister, the insignia of the papyrus reed pinned to his stately robes. "...Councilman Zahur," you said in reply, your voice tense. "It is good to see you as well."

"Ages have passed since my previous visit. The palace gardens are truly gateways to paradise!" he exclaimed, a small tired sigh escaping him. "The audience chamber is not nearly so pleasing as these gardens. I dare say the stones beneath my heel provided better company than the tittering of the courtiers."

"As you say, councilman. If you would excuse me?"

"Not yet I fear," Zahur said as he smoothly blocked your hasty retreat. "I have several questions to ask you, in hopes of the answers I seek.

"Moments before, I witnessed Pharaoh storming away from your side princess, as he called for his stablehand to ready his fastest horse. Why ever he would choose warfare over your presence, I cannot fathom."

"That is... none of your business, sir." It was mortifying to discover that someone had been watching the exchange. Just how much had he witnessed, you wondered bleakly.

"Has he been rejecting you, treating you as a farmer would a cow put outside to graze? Ignored as long as your existence does not burden him?"

"Please excuse me." You tried to move past him, but he would not allow you to do so.

"You're playing a very dangerous and fruitless game, Your Highness. Pharaoh is not a patient man, and previous women have chased him to no avail."

"Might you reach your agenda sometime soon, sir?"

"I have no agenda, princess."

"A man who spies on couples has an agenda, whether he cares to admit it or not."

"My only concern is for your welfare, Your Highness."

"That is assuming of course, I believe you."

"You wound me."

"If I had, you'd be bleeding."

"These diversions are beneath us both, princess."

"Then you may feel free to speak openly whenever it pleases you, Councilman Zahur. Until then, you may expect apathy."

"Your Highness, I confess that I am drawn to you as nothing ever before had," Zahur beseeched. "You are His Majesty's betrothed, but still I must ask if you would spend time with me outside of the royal palace, in our fair capital city. Please grant me even a moment of borrowed time!"

"Councilman Zahur," your eldest handmaiden, Asim, tried to intervene on your behalf. "My deepest apologies. We're to escort Her Highness back to her chambers on Pharaoh's behest."

"And we certainly wouldn't wish to anger His Majesty," Zahur said agreeably. "Why, even steadfast loyalty would not protect his subjects from his wrath. There's just no telling what may set off the Tyrant of the Black Lands."

"What do you mean?" Your voice came out harder than you meant it to.

Zahur blinked, taken aback by your demand before adopting a furtive expression. He leaned towards you slightly, his voice lowered, and he gave every impression of those gossiping courtiers he had scorned. "One story I heard dates back to His Majesty's first campaign against the Hero of Charity. In those days, I had yet to graduate from school and take up my post in the Red Court, but the tale is well known amongst the smallfolk and the highborn alike."

"Councilman Zahur, this is highly improper," Asim insisted.

"Are you certain you wish to hear this, Your Highness?" Zahur teased you boyishly. "I swear to you, it is a story most chilling. And absolutely true. If you are afraid, I would not protest if you held my hand to seek comfort."

"Tell me what you know," you said, oblivious to the teenager's ineffectual flirting.

"Alright! At the tail's end of that first campaign, the greatest military officers of that time had just achieved victory over the Red Emperor's forces. They were heroes who had cut down hundreds of men each! But when they returned to camp, Pharaoh did not bestow upon them the valour of gold. Nay, he refused to acknowledge their brave deeds.

"Instead, the bloodless king stabbed a knife into the back of his poor loyal generals' necks and twisted it to see them jerk like a puppet might! And then, His Majesty watched the light leave their eyes, just as he did the blood left their bodies. What's more, Pharaoh expressed his desire for the public executions to be bloodier but His Majesty was rather pressed for time, with the Red Emperor still on the horizon...chilling, isn't it Your Highness?"

"Councilman Zahur, you speak such impertinence in the presence of His Majesty's betrothed," Asim scolded him, being the first to recover from his outrageous reveal.

"Milady, please come this way," Nepthys said through gritted teeth, gently guiding you by your wrist. She was neither pleased or entertained by the teenager's story.

…

  
You allowed a silent shudder to enclasp your body as Pharaoh ascended the steps to sit beside you on the bed. He sat beside you without affording you any words with which he might bend you to his will; as if to share with you the declining sun painting all the world you would never now see a blazing vermillion; as if the sun desperately boasting its brilliance in its drowning moments was only his to give.

He turned your face with the persuasion of two strong fingers wrapping your chin; you held your gaze low. He seemed to study you, memorize every shadow your features cast over your face; sapphire blades glossing over your face as if someone tracing the index of a long scroll with a careful finger.

For that long and suspended moment, you believed he would lean in. You expected with each shallowing breath to taste his lips, but it would never come.

Instead his face leaned past yours, only the air he stirred brushing your cheeks, kissing with some restrained passion your bare shoulder as he had done that morning.

“You’re the most enchanting creature I have ever laid my eyes upon,” he husked as his lips passed your ears, leaning back to sit up at his full height.

“Your Majesty.” You did not dare meet his gaze. “Your grace is immeasurable.”

“My grace...”A scowl crossed his features. He stood, sauntering down to pick up an upturned chalice from the server set against the wall. Filling it with a long pour of dark wine from the gilded decanter, he spoke with his back facing you, "There are those who say my grace has been less than generous. That I would sooner have pounds in flesh rather than justice or reason. Even now, there are those in the court who think me a monster made into a man.” He turned to find your eyes. “Do you think the same, princess?"

You would not say anything. You sensed he was not asking for an answer.

"How odd I find it that you say my grace is immeasurable. When not a week prior you tried to escape into the night, and you have attempted twice to take your own life. The men who swore fealty to me, who served me. Those men called me their king, and not once did they praise my generosity. So who are you then, to recognize me so? To call my grace immeasurable? Immeasurable. Immeasurable!"

With that last he said as a shout the jewelled goblet of wine in his hands met violently the sandstone wall.

"There is a riot in the poorer villages currently, did you know?"

"No."

"They riot over bread. My Vizier says there is hardly any grain left in their stores because they burned from the recent strings of arson, and that none comes from the southern floodplains, because the south gives it to my generals to feed the soldiers who train at the southern military headquarters. There is some that comes from the north and centre floodplains, but the last does not come now because the Red Court councilmen are utter buffoons who have allowed their privately owned trade ships to be harangued by the pirates despite my warnings and offers of protection. That which comes from the northern fields cannot feed all of the villagers which total to half a million alone. Or so the reports tell me."

You remained silent.

"What they do not tell me, nor Vizier Sennefer nor even my own court, is that the smallfolk curse my name in the streets. They speak all manner of lies as they do it, and they pray for the Hero of Charity to send them grain, and in doing so save them from hunger and thirst. They pray for the pirates even, that they might let the ships sail the Delta freely, so that the fishermen might feed the craftsmen. They pray for them, and they damn me. Yet it is the Red Emperor's fault that the people are not fed, not mine. His fault, and the pirates. And your lord uncle, even."

Yet still you remained silent.

"Your Great Emperor sabotaged my trade ships, and then tried to shift the blame to the pirates when his treachery came to light," he continued, his dark temper on full display as he went on. "Four thousand men died months before, and it might have well been more had my vassal forces not kept their word and rode into the enemy's rear and provided emergency provisions. Your lord uncle's interference with my supplies acquisition lost me battles, princess. And you may yet attempt to take your own life a third time if I look away. And here you are, telling me my grace is immeasurable. Just standing there like a statue, staring at me — ”

He cut himself off, a shudder following as he tried to compose himself. He did this for the longest moment, before he recovered enough to ask you a question asked before.

"What is it about me that displeases you? What must I do, to ease your misgivings?" He paused. "I've been told you had difficulties rejecting Zahur's unwanted advances. Where is the girl who would order a foreign prince to keep his hands to himself, to protect her own dignity? Tell me, what must I do to get her back? Name your price."

"I wish to live a free woman, and not as your wife." Somehow you found the strength to speak your mind.

"Anything but that. To allow you to reject the title of Queen and leave my side...is the one thing I cannot grant."

"You're a terrible liar, Your Majesty," you blurted out, ending your long silence entirely. Of course you were still afraid. But hearing him brush off your concerns in his tirade as if they were but mere added weight to his burdens, and having him dismiss your previous responses incensed you. "The day we met, you said you would give me anything I desired. Still you deny me my freedom!"

"You are not a prisoner!" Pharaoh roared. "Once you become my wife, your status will be equaled by no one else in these lands other than myself. Your title will give you as much reign over the empire as I, not even Vizier Sennefer has been allowed this much! Why can't you discern the reality in front of you?"

"I never wanted any titles! I never wanted the power to dictate people's lives! I never wished to be a Queen!" You sobbed, forgetting to speak with court etiquette. "I cannot be a god,” you whispered, “and I certainly never wanted to be involved in war! I only wanted to live simply, in peace!"

"That sentiment is the height of foolishness," Pharaoh scorned. "It is that very sentiment that will be the end of you! You are allowing your fear to dictate your actions!"

For a short while you glared at each other, your chests heaving from the impassioned rebuttal.

"I ask you once more. What is it about me that displeases you? What is the fear that has claimed your heart so deeply?"

"Your eyes!" you screamed without thinking.

"My... my eyes?"

"I cannot read your eyes," you stammered. "They are the same, whether you are looking at me or someone else. Whether you are angry, calm, or watching a former ally be reduced to slivers before you. I cannot fathom what is in your eyes, and I don't know what you think of when you look at me. And so I am left wondering, if each day is to be my last..."

You were courting death, a voice reminded your fingers skirting mutiny. Your betrothed was not to be insulted; he has slain without remorse even the most loyal. You may have long surrendered your obstinate will to live, but now you feared a painful death. It was with this reflection that you splayed yourself at his feet.

Silence stretched with excruciating persistence.

“What is this?” Pharaoh asked after more moments than you knew how to count had passed, his voice stripped to a low growl. “What is this shameless display?”

You would not speak, should your actions not speak on your silence’s behalf? It seemed they wouldn’t, and the slow flame burning the rope that was his patience as he attempted in earnest to reconcile your trust had nothing more to reduce to cinder, the roaring blaze turned its wrath on you.

“Have I not repeated to you crown princess, until my throat tasted of blood, that I wish for there to be no formalities between us? And yet you see fit to throw yourself stubbornly as if in protest of my wishes.”

You looked up intentionally to find his eyes this time, still fallen at his feet. You denied his claim vehemently, shaking your head. “Your Majesty, no, I wish for nothing of the sort, my loyalty — how could I — ”

“To your feet,” he ordered. “To your feet I said!”

You stayed as you were, fingers curling against the skirt of your gown in a state of petrification. At your continued paralysis, he reached down to you, an unforgiving grip seizing your upper arms lifting you to stand.

Your expression threatened tears, and he drew in a long breath as if to mend his wits. “Are you intent on antagonizing me princess?”

He could not have hoped for an answer, he knew that well. And indeed, he would not receive one, dissolving you in his clutches to a paroxysms of weeping.

He could not fathom why his eyes to you were so unsightly.

…

As Pharaoh holed himself alone in the other chamber, the great doors sealed shut, your handmaidens prepared you for bed. Once again, your garments were quite short. You had hoped for something as decent as his royal robes you had been swathed in out in the gardens outside. But the hem reaching your upper thigh told you otherwise.

"The girls and I could hear the tyrant's fury," Irene said, expertly combing through the tangles in your hair. Her eyes flickered to the other side of the bed chamber, where two other handmaidens were swiftly and efficiently clearing away the callously discarded jewelled goblet. "Was he...did he hurt you?"

You were not in the mood for speaking, so you simply nodded your head. His words earlier had been harsher than he had ever spoken to you, and they cut deeply.

Irene's eyes darkened with indignation. "And to think your lord uncle Delphini XV gave the order to ignore the knowledge of your previous existence on Genova, while you toil away in these faraway lands at the mercy of Pharaoh..." her voice trailed off as Asim carefully approached the two of you.

"Your Highness, please lift your feet," the eldest of your handmaidens entreated. You absently did so, and she positioned the copper basin she had been carrying beneath them. At her signal, you set your feet back down, into the warm water awaiting you. Asim knelt in front of you and picked up a soft washcloth. "Is the bathwater to your liking, Your Highness?"

"Yes," you said in a small voice. You had been torn between soaking in a hot bath or simply going straight to bed; you had already taken a bath immediately after returning inside from the gardens and it felt superfluous to take a second one. Asim had suggested the foot bath.

"I have attended to several women before you, and still you are the most beautiful of them all," Asim said in a conversational tone. In a way she reminded you of Lady Agatha, your guardian and nanny during your younger years living in the Holy Empire. But unlike that plump and joyful woman, Asim was very refined, all sensuous curves and stylishly short cropped hair. You were certain she was past her prime, but her mature beauty and exquisite manner obfuscated any hint to her true age.

"Milady is not only the most beautiful woman in the Holy Empire, but in all the world," Irene declared, her pride in serving as your handmaiden plain for all to see. "Naturally, the moon god himself could not resist her!"

"It would be difficult to contest such a claim, Her Highness' appeal is so powerful, despite announcing her betrothal to His Majesty she would still attract men such as Councilmen Zahur to her side," Asim agreed. She pointedly did not mention the First Prince of Ashenvale. "Perhaps the crown princess is even more lovely than the Red Empress of Vasusena, Yashvi."

"The Queen and wife of the Hero of Charity, is she not?" Irene asked, her curiosity that a woman could match your visage piqued. You felt the comb come to a brief halt in your hair. "I have only heard tales of her. They say her beauty lies not in her face, but in her will to protect her subjects. But I have also heard less flattering stories of her..."

"That she is a kinslayer?" The golden haired handmaiden, Nepthys, entered the conversation with a tray containing your herbal remedies. "That she seduced innocent farmhand Karna into murdering all other possible candidates for the throne, and then crowned him herself with the blood of all of their enemies?" She placed the tray upon the table closest to her before impertinently sitting on the steps leading to the bed, ignoring Asim's horned gaze. She ran her fingers up and down her exposed legs as if to massage them.

"I have heard of the tales accusing Yashvi of being a kinslayer," Irene reluctantly said, Nepthys' brazen display of her own body somewhat offending her sensibilities. "But the Red Emperor is far from what a sensible man would call innocent! Was he not already a soldier of Vasusena before he began relations with Yashvi?"

"I meant innocent in the ways of the flesh, dear Irene!" Nepthys tittered into the back of her hand. "Karna was as innocent as Pharaoh when Yashvi ambushed him with her curvaceous hips!"

"His Majesty is not an innocent!" Irene miraculously did not choke on the title.

"Nepthys, you have stirred quite enough scandal within these hallowed chambers. I believe it is time for you to join Ife and the others in weaving linen," Asim said sternly.

"But, Asim! I hardly have the chance to share in gossip with you and the girls anymore. I am always so busy!" The flaxen haired handmaiden bemoaned.

Asim hummed in disbelief. "Pray tell how many rolls of linen have you completed this week? I do not understand why His Majesty keeps you in his employ."

Nepthys pouted, cast a longing look in your direction and sauntered out of the chambers.

"Forgive her impertinence Your Highness, but she and I, and all the rest are very excited and much honoured to be given the chance to serve someone as you. If our behaviours displease you, you only need to speak your thoughts."

As she massaged your feet in the warm water, Asim glanced up into your impassive face and smiled. You sensed that she was being sincere, which prompted you to return her smile to the best of your current ability.

…

As strained as your body was and as battered your emotions besides, you slept like the dead once you closed your eyes. You did not acknowledge Pharaoh when he slipped into bed beside you, you were too far gone to manage this. Spending so much time with him in such increased proximity had worsened your for wear. Pharaoh's sincere motives to attend to your frail health and protect you from impending doom had only succeeded in escalating the friction between you tenfold.

It was a miserable existence.

Unbeknownst to each other, you both had the same weary thought. _Would this continue on for the rest of our lives, with no hope of recovery?_

That night you had partaken in fresh fruit and clean spring water together, alone beneath the stars and away from the bustle of the celebration, seemed like a distant memory. Or rather the warm beginnings of an entirely different story. Where had it all gone wrong?

The three anklets he'd fastened on you were still as heavy as the first night you had worn them. Both of you were ever sensitive to their weight.

...Both of you, and one other person.

This person waited until all was dark before entering the bed chambers of the tyrant. She had served as a handmaiden for long years aplenty, and learning how to unlock doors had been one of the skills of the trade she had acquired.

Another skill was how to move about the quarters without disturbing anything, silently preparing all that was needed before the dawn of a new day.

To slowly and carefully trap unknowing prey beneath her for one decisive stab to the heart, ending their life for good, was a skill that was her birthright, a skill that everyone in her tribe needed to adopt.

And tonight, she would end the life of the woman who bore the three weights that were fastened securely around her ankle; the woman who would soon no doubt bear Pharaoh his kingdom’s firstborn heir.

You.

Still trapped in a dreamless and tired sleep, your normally sharp senses in regards to anything which threatened your life were dulled. You could not feel the menacing gaze aimed at you from the figure hovering above your prone form off the side of the bed. You could not hear the slightest tang of steel as the dagger was unsheathed. You did not see the moonlight glinting off the edge of the ceremonial blade as it was raised over your defenceless chest.

You did not, but the man lying by your side did. The man who had stayed awake as he struggled to find the golden solution which would heal the rifts in his relationship with you, listening to your soft breathing which had become his lullaby since the first night.

When the dagger arched downwards, a deadly grip on the handmaiden's wrist halted the assault entirely.

"Do you have a death wish? To intrude into my chambers in this manner, and to attack my intended Queen," you heard the bloodless king snarl from beside you. You struggled to open your eyes, only half aware of what he was saying. "Did you believe me unaware of your poisoned chalice, rat? I had your scheming hide within my sights since my men reported your movements to me."

The heated rejoinder was uttered in the Khemetian language; you had no hope of understanding what was being said from that point onwards. You rubbed your eyes and tried to sit up.

With a shout that sounded like a curse, Pharaoh's arm wrapped tightly around your waist and pulled you against the hard planes of his bare chest just as the dagger was plunged into the spot your head had been before.

It was all mercifully quick. The handmaiden lunged after you and you alone, uncaring of the consequences awaiting her, wholly intent on sending your soul to the shadow realms with the blade. Only to be roughly backhanded for her efforts, her face snapping to the side with a sickening crack as she careened off the edge of the bed and tumbled down the steps.

Pharaoh, still speaking in words you could not comprehend, barked out rapid and pitched sentences which sounded like commands. As if in response, there was the clear chime of a small bell in the distance. To your growing confusion and mortification he had slung you into his muscled arms, carrying you out of the bed chambers towards the opened doors.

As if storming out of the stonework itself, four palace sentinels rushed inside at once and immediately began work on apprehending the handmaiden who had not moved an inch from where she'd fallen.

Pharaoh set you down on the plush, cushioned chair in his office. He took his ceremonial purple cape from where it had been slung and he wrapped it securely around your form. He spoke your name to get your attention. "Stay here." As he retreated back to the bed chamber, Chief Inquisitor Omar walked inside the chambers and stood at unblinking attention close by, eyes trained squarely upon the open doors as if to guard you.

The handmaiden was forced to stand on her feet. Your eyes widened when her gaze met yours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special advisory:
> 
> No jeweled goblets were harmed during the making of this story.
> 
> Dress: https://pin.it/dqjwgwanorveuf


	6. The Blindfold Gambit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Wanderlust here, sorry I’ve been a little MIA in the comment section, I had quite an overhaul in schedule so that’s taken a while to get used to. I’m back for the most part now and I’ve read all of your lovely comments so do keep them coming, honestly it’s the most gratifying thing to read after working on these chapters for days, sometimes weeks :). Thank you, thank you, thank you <3
> 
> Sorry the notes aren’t as entertaining when I do them. XD

 

The sentinels were still speaking in low, harsh tones with Pharaoh in their native tongue, but there was no need for a translator. You were familiar with the face of this maid. She was one of your own...and still she had tried to kill you.

Was this to be your ultimate fate? Contained within an impenetrable fortress only to be preyed on no matter which way you turned? It did not escape your notice that you were her sole target. And for reasons unknown, no less. It was endless strangulation; living each moment under the burden of merciless suffocation of paranoid apprehension. You could not fathom a life lived where the shadow of death loomed ever-present outside your door; entering or not entering with each person who crossed the threshold, how would you know?

"Your Highness," the bearded man standing at the ready called your attention. "I am called Omar, Chief Inquisitor of the sentinels which enforce His Majesty's laws upon all of Khemet." Although he wore the same white cloak as his men, he was the only one who did not hide his face. A bronze sigil in the shape of a falcon pinned the cloak shut, but when he moved there was a glimpse of his leather armour and the hilt of his sword underneath. Slung upon his back was an axe.

"I know you," you said softly. "You and your men received the Delphini envoy several nights before. You also guard the royal palace."

"Aye. It is a great honour to officially introduce myself properly to Your Highness. I am ever at your disposal," he recited slowly, as if tasting each word before it left his lips. He solemnly placed his fist over his heart and executed a very stiff bow, seemingly unsure how deeply he needed to bend at the waist towards you. If you had been watching this exchange from a distance, you would have been amused at the sight of such a large man behaving as timidly as a mouse towards a small woman. He was clearly unaccustomed with courtly etiquette.

"Omar. I want you to tell me what they are saying," you said, choosing to forgo formalities. Out of the corner of your eye you noticed the captured handmaiden giving you the blackest of glares you had ever beheld this season.

The Chief Inquisitor hesitated. "I certainly can, but it will not be pleasant. Best leave these unsavoury matters to Pharaoh, and get some rest."

"I refuse to rest under these circumstances. Do I not deserve the truth of this plot against me?"

Omar nodded his head in acknowledgement, and the two of you turned your focus to the interrogation that had just begun in earnest. By this point, the girl had been brought to stand before Pharaoh in his royal office, not far from where you sat.

…

"Your Majesty," spoke the handmaiden pleadingly. "I am ever your loyal slave."

"Ife, of the Desert Minnows," said Pharaoh through gritted teeth. "Your humour amuses me little. In fact, it offends me, rat."

"I do not intend to be amusing nor to offend!" came the tearful response. "Rather, I speak only the truth! You have not seen what I have seen! That bitch who warms your bed is not as sweet as she appears. Her arms are that of an archer! Her legs, that of a breaker of stallions! Her eyes are ever alert and watchful!"

"She was the Holy Empire's personification of their moon goddess, I have been informed. It is not strange for the high priestess of Artemis to practice ceremonial archery and riding. And I would prefer my Queen to be alert than oblivious."

"I have been raised alongside my father's warrior since I was but a child, honing my body into a weapon for our people! I know in my heart the difference between a high priestess and a huntress! I cannot bring myself to stand by and allow this lioness give birth to a child that would one day usurp you and our homes! I will not allow all we have sacrificed go to waste and our kingdom be swallowed by the Great Sand Sea!"

"Even now, you cannot help but spew filth. I'm finding it rather tiresome. You and your father both, High Priest Ubaid's little creatures. Corruption then, and treason now. Blackstone Tower calls for you, rat."

"Can you not see she has you enthralled?" protested Ife as she struggled to pull away from her captors. "Let me prove it, Your Majesty! Mark my words, this lioness will be the end of you, but with me by your side we can halt her schemes! Let me prove my loyalty!"

"The loyalty of a mercenary," said Pharaoh disdainfully, "And a ne'er-do-well with little character and less in morals. With allies like yourself, a man might as well have no enemies. Take her to Blackstone!"

"Your Majesty!" Ife wailed in despair as the sentinels began to drag her out of the chambers.

When she passed you, her head snapped up and she began screaming at you in broken phrases of the common tongue, and there was no need for Omar to translate further. "You lioness! Osiris knows of your sinful body!"

You gave the men some distance ahead before standing up, fully intending to follow them out the door.

Pharaoh stopped you with his arms, enclosing you in them. "The Inquisitors will continue to extract information from her. There is no reason to follow." He pointedly removed his royal robes from your form and carelessly flung them to the side, leaving you once again in the shameful excuse of a night gown.

You stubbornly craned your neck, glancing around his broad shoulders and watched Omar follow Ife and her captors out into the halls, her furious shouts echoing. "What... do you intend to do to her?"

"I will do nothing, my men however will secure Ife in a temporary holding cell until tomorrow," he replied, still holding you against his solid body as if to keep you from bolting after them. "The night is still long. There will be time to deal with her once the morning comes."

"Once you have finished interrogating her, will you tear her limb from limb, just as you did to Charmles?" You shuddered and began the process of extricating yourself from his embrace. To your consternation, he held you tighter in response.

He groaned your name, but you were oblivious to the change happening within Pharaoh. Each time you moved, your soft breasts brushed against him, and it was all his body could focus on, that delicate point of contact. It was maddening. "Will you dispute the fact she tried to kill you? Do you wish for her to be pardoned for her transgression against you this night?"

"I am not so foolish to ignore what she had nearly done to me!" you snapped, never missing the chance to defend your honour. You jerked your head back to look at him directly.

"Good." He met your gaze equally and without reservation.

"But there is no justice to be found in mutilation," you insisted, forgetting to speak formally in his presence once again.

Your words were as effective as a basin of cold water, clearing away most of the pleasantly burning embers that had begun to engulf his senses. Pharaoh disliked blatant criticism of his tried and true methods, no matter who delivered them. Even you would not be treated so differently. "So you would have me become the laughingstock of Khemet and our neighbouring kingdoms? You would allow her to walk free, after all that has transpired? You would remain silent, even after she has accused you of falsehoods?" He asked you, each word dripping with scorn. Those powerful arms tightened around you even more, as if in warning.

"That is not what I mean, Pharaoh!" you rallied, your voice steadily growing stronger with your convictions. "If you gave me a moment to explain myself, I would! You are just so..." you abruptly remembered to cut yourself off before you did the unthinkable, and insulted the bloodless king to his face directly.

His brow arched expectantly, the line of his mouth thinned. His eyes resembled blue diamonds, hard and unyielding. But despite this display of arrogance he was silent, just as you'd demanded.

Thoughts whirling about your mind as furiously as petals in a spring storm, you took a breath to centre yourself in the face of his challenge, and began anew. "Whether she plotted this all on her own or simply a tool serving a larger purpose, she is bound for an execution either way. But why must it be such a horrific sentence? Why must her agony be lengthened so? I am alive and unharmed so why must the punishment be so inhumane?"

"You are alive and unharmed because that miserable rodent foolishly believed she could catch me unawares, in my own chambers no less," Pharaoh retorted. "If I hadn't acted in your defence, you would not be here. Don't be naive."

You shivered at the thought.

"Her attempt to murder you, my betrothed and the future Queen and Mother of Khemet, was not her only crime. She trespassed into my quarters, which none besides you have been given express permission to enter at will. She insulted your honour, and in turn insulted mine by accusing you of plotting treason against the whole of Khemet."

You swallowed at his mention of treason against an entire nation. Thankfully, he did not give any indication that he had noticed your sudden discomfort.

"By making an example out of her, we would warn our enemies and allies alike to think twice before scheming against us, striking fear in their hearts," Pharaoh continued. "They would think back to this day and remember the wrath of the chosen son of Ra, the king's justice."

"The hangman's noose, the headman's axe...these are the tools of a just king. When men think of mutilation, they do not think of just kings. They think of demons, of tyrants, of madmen!" you pressed.

"I cannot afford to be weak in the eyes of my subjects!" Pharaoh growled. "I would rather be seen a heartless tyrant than an ineffectual ruler!"

"Surely you cannot mean that! Your subjects would despise you, utterly!"

"Oh, but I do, princess. During the reign before the last, my predecessor had refused to take up arms in defence of the small folk. As a result, Khemet lost the support it had enjoyed from the neighbouring kingdoms and nearly fell to ruin. You may continue to spurn war, and you may even disagree with the way I punish the worst criminals in my court, but answer me thus: what do you do when your enemies have begun pillaging and burning everything in sight? What if your traitorous handmaiden had inflicted an injury upon you? How much more can you forgive before you agree to the punishment befitting those crimes?"

"That is...I don't..."

"If you have an alternative punishment in mind for Ife that does not in any way lessen the fear and respect of the people towards the throne, I would like to hear your suggestion," Pharaoh said in a sneer.

Your mind desperately searched for a suitable example, anything at all. You struggled to remember what had been done in the Holy Empire, your lord uncle's policies towards criminals. But it was no use; you were never interested in politics unless it directly threatened your life. You were still unsure how to salvage Ife's situation, how to stop the tyrant from revisiting his grisly execution of the First Prince of Ashenvale.

There was a sudden brief knock, and an Inquisitor announced his urgent request for Pharaoh's audience.

Wordlessly, Pharaoh released you from his embrace at last and left you where you stood, still thinking of a way out.

Except the delicate predicament was bigger than you, and at your fingertips it threatened to shatter, though somehow your mind found chaotic refuge in another at his his return; your thoughts on the traitor flickering, waning to nought.

It was not the first you had seen his chest bare, though it shocked you all the same. It had not been of any consequence under the threat of assassination though as the storm clouds cleared in his embrace, it grew to be a bothersome distraction. It was all your eyes wanted to see. In spite of yourself, you grew curious of how it would feel to be pressed against him as you had been, except now with your faculties about you. How it would feel to touch — how you could form such a shameful thought was beyond you.

Caging you within his arms as if a fortress, he urged you to bed. “Nothing will come of staying awake revisiting the event over in your mind,” he said in a thick whisper, and you wondered if you liked the touch of his fingertips knotted in your hair; pressing against your scalp.

Slipping under the sheets, the wrap of his arms was instantaneous.

“I will not hear any more of your protests,” Pharaoh said, lending himself as if your human shield. “Should there be a next time, I may not rouse in time to protect you. Against me...there is no place safer.”

You would still protest, but the beat of his heart against your back was assuring somehow, and slowly, very slowly, you sunk into him with the pull of sleep; the sensation of his chin against your crown your last before darkness.

It was a moment of weakness, you would tell yourself. It would not happen again.

…

You woke up to the same heartbeat, except now it pulsed against your temple. His scent lingered all about you, or perhaps it was you, it had become you, having been wrapped in him the whole night. The thought was slightly mortifying as your eyes flickering open encountered his naked chest.

He was still, and if the possibility remained that he was still asleep, you did not want yourself to be discovered in such a compromising position. It would only stand to fortify his convictions of keeping you as his designated wife. You didn’t want to be the wife of a tyrant. You did not want to admit that you had found comfort in his embrace, or worse still, that you fit into him, the way a well cut key against a lock.

Why was he still in bed? You could hear birds in the late morning in the fruit trees.

Stealing a tentative glimpse of his face, instead of blue eyes, or even closed eyes, you found a dark clothe bound across his eyes. What was he attempting to prove?

Freeing an arm folded between your two bodies, you lifted it to his face, dancing your fingertips with much anxiety over the stretch of clothe. Had he been awake, he would have reacted, would he have not?

Assured by this, your curiosity was emboldened, or perhaps it grew to such a size that you no longer commanded its reigns, and consequently your fingertips began to tread over his face. His skin was smoother than you had expected, and even at such close proximity, unblemished. It reminded you of his silken voice, which you had imagined to be more ragged and jaded for a blood-thirsting emperor.

It was inviting, the canvas of rich olive, so you traced his raised cheekbone; thumb grazing over the edge and caressing his jaw seemingly chiselled by an expert sculptor of marble.

You scoffed at the thought. _Look at me,_ you scorned your wandering thoughts, _now I’m writing poetry for the brute_.

In your eyes, or at least in your mind, you were yet to decide if you saw him as a man. He was much too disposed to violent tendencies despite what your eyes may deceive you to believe. But how could someone so beautiful be so cruel?

You had not observed your runaway fingers, craving more bare skin as it grazed his long neck, over the raise of his Adam’s apple — so prominent as if he had swallowed a stone and held it there — to splay over his sculpted pecs.

From your fingertips you were charged with some energy akin to lightening as his chest rumbled with a guttural laugh.

You raised your eyes to see his lips curving up with some devilish satisfaction. “Awake, princess?”

You had forgotten to escape him.

His fingers tightened as you motioned to move away, pulling you flush against the exposed chest which had been the grudging object of your temptations since last night. “Continue,” Pharaoh said in taunt, “I’m not averse to it. Why, my betrothed is entitled to all of my body.”

You reddened at those words, the welling heat desperate to escape simmering against the curves of your ears.

“Do not attempt to seduce me with your innocence, or those doe eyes I cannot see right now,” he husked, blindly combing away with his slender fingers hair which obstructed your face. “You may not be prepared to take responsibility of the consequences.”

“Re—responsibility of the — the consequences?” you succeeded in stringing together.

“I’m asking if you’re prepared to take responsibility of me,” Pharaoh said.

Only your eyes would widen; you had no words to give him. You wouldn’t believe this mask of tenderness, a blindfold did not make a new man.

He kissed your hairline, then your cheek. Those warm lips never lifted from that spot, instead, they traced their way to find your jaw. You would not move. He kissed your ear. “Am I less repulsive now? Without my eyes?”

“You’re not without your eyes,” you whispered. “Only that I cannot see them.”

“Am I less repulsive to you now,” he reiterated, “that you cannot see my eyes?”

“No.” You had meant to elucidate that you had misspoken, perhaps sincerely even, that you did not find him repulsive. Terror in and of itself did not make him repulsive to you. It was isolated from repulsion. You found him beautiful, though many beautiful things you had encountered in life could kill, and that enclasped you with unimaginable fear. It surrounded you, all the time, and you could not see past it to regard him as a human being. Somewhere in your mind you regarded him as a god. You did not believe in gods, but for the first time maybe you had witnessed one. Divinity was a human construct after all, and he was too untouchable to be classified a man. He was too great to be bent to your pleas or your will, or anyone’s, and such unbridled power...it was terrifying.

“I see.”

“No,” you insisted softly, “you’re not repulsive.”

“Do not lie to me,” Pharaoh said, “I respect your steadfast honesty. It’s very becoming of my woman.

“I must ask something of you.”

“Yes?”

“As you can see, at your request, I am without sight. I must ask you to be my eyes for the day,” Pharaoh said.

“I did not mean to place a burden on you. I will accept your consideration for my mindlessly spoken words of yesterday and ask that you forgive me who is still too foolish and immature.”

By the back of your head he pressed your face against his chest. “Then make up for your foolishness,” he said. “As my future Queen, your words hold weight, so you’re expected to take responsibility for your words. I am without sight at your request. Take responsibility for what you have asked. It is not one I would have obliged for anyone else.”

“What would you have me do?”

…

As you discovered over the course of the morning, the man, on some stretch of his body which was invisible to you, carried a third eye, because he navigated the bed chambers as if the blindfold was a figment of your imagination.

Hurrying around the bed to his aid, Pharaoh had already descended the steps — succeeding with more grace than you had managed with the glorified shackles binding your ankles.

As if to emphasize this, he had rustled your already disheveled tresses from sleep, reaching blindly though with suspicious precision for your crown. “For a woman, you’re clumsier than I imagined,” he said. His condescending delivery earning your ire.

You had refused to accompany him to the bathing chambers, and he had remarked that he had not asked.

…

This morning you had been given another ivory gown woven of fine silk. Following what had qualified for appropriate court attire in the week which had passed, this garment had come to be regarded as decent in your eyes. The neckline still plunged low, revealing your clavicles, stomach and everything in between, though for once, your breasts were concealed. The cascading skirt brushed the sandstone floor, its gathers opening as if butterfly wings as you walked. Intertwining, heavy gold chains carved to emulate whimsical spirals adorned your bodice, crossing over your chest, while a diadem of a slithering serpent was laid over your neatly combed back locks. You disliked snakes.

Irene reasoned that since the tyrant could not see you, there was no pleasure to be derived in having you display yourself in a manner in which he could feast his eyes. She had without hesitation punctuated her claim with the word _pervert_ , utterly sickened by her own conclusion.

The exchange had been brief however, the conversation quickly buried as Pharaoh allowed himself back into the sleeping chamber.

By breakfast, you had developed many misgivings for the legitimacy of the blindfold gambit. You were almost convinced it was see-through, and that your future husband was playing you for a fool.

“That sour expression you’ve worn all morning,” he said as you sat beside him in an open air dining table on the veranda of his chambers at breakfast, “is unbecoming of you.”

“As employing a strategy as inferior as using a transparent blindfold is of you, Your Majesty.”

He seemed unfazed by the accusation, calmly slicing his lamb with a conceited smile gripping his face. “Are you disappointed?” Pharaoh vaguely inquired in return.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The blindfold is not a tactic to deceive you,” he said. “I truly am without sight. I’m asking if you’re upset that you could not be closer to me. Perhaps you are disappointed you could not feed me?”

Your breath stifled, indignation burning through you. “You could not be further from the truth.”

Why you received his playful remarks with such severity he could never comprehend, though it never ceased to be amusing.

“As you say.”

“It is,” you insisted, driving a knife through your own meat with a rougher hand than necessary.

“Have I angered you, my betrothed?” he asked in taunt above the roar of the surrounding Nile, knowing well the answer to his own query.

“Of course not.”

He had studied you enough to recognize that tone, so he knew. The knowledge that he could inspire some emotion in you besides repulsion, it satisfied him greatly.

…

"Pharaoh, what of Ife? Is she being interrogated still?" Undaunted by his smug attitude and merciless teasing during the morning meal, you doggedly tailed him into the furthest corner of his personal armoury. As you watched him press his fingers along the stone wall, slowly feeling his way, you were overcome with a sense of familiarity.

Pharaoh sighed. "Must we revisit old arguments?"

"Until I have your word, I will revisit those arguments as many times as necessary."

"In regards to...?"

"Ife's sentencing, Your Majesty."

"And this time, I presume you have a suitable alternative?"

You didn't. "With some time, I am confident I can find a solution."

His fingers suddenly paused in their blind search. "I believe you. Perchance if this wasn't an urgent matter, I would have granted you all the time you'd need." As if to punctuate his words he pressed down on the spot his fingers were resting, and with a quiet grating rumble the wall in front of him slid open.

Another hidden door, just as you'd thought. Pharaoh rarely used the main entrance to his chambers, that grand and stately double doors which were constantly under the sentinels' vigilance. But you were keenly aware of how he vanished at several points each day without fail, for long stretches of time, and here was the undeniable proof that he could move about the palace at will. You heavily suspected there were still more secret doors you were not aware of in his chambers.

Why would he would show you another secret passage, when you had tried to escape him once before. Was he not worried you would use this knowledge to your advantage?

"This is overly bold of you, Your Majesty," you complained as he led the way down the carved stone steps into the darkness. "Dangerously so. What if you were to trip on a rock and lose your grip on the torch? I would be unable to call for help in time to save you from the flames, and I have no magical powers to speak of." You watched him as he smoothly reached out and picked up the torch from its place on the wall, clearly a well-practiced motion. Suddenly you felt a familiar yet unwelcome sensation turn your gut. A feeling of certain death enveloped you like an icy shroud, and without a second thought you reached for his wrist. "Are you listening to me? Please, take off that blindfold, at least until we reach your destination. Burning alive is not a fate I would wish upon my worst enemy, let alone you, Your Majesty."

Pharaoh came to a standstill at the feel of your fingers wrapping around him; at the sound of your voice wavering with concern.

"Then I'll trust you to wield the torch well, princess. It would not do to shame the Imperial Family of Delphini, after all." He held the unlit torch towards you. The wrist you had latched onto slipped from your grasp, and long fingers threaded between yours in its place.

"My training had nothing to do with my family," you snapped, grabbing the proffered torch. After a brief moment of study, you were able to set it aflame just as he had done, days ago. Having such an object in your clutches was a powerful reminder of how you would explore the depths of the cave systems in Genova, as you hunted for new materials. Having such an object in your clutches helped you feel like your old self.

And your old self was always sore and bleeding whenever your family was praised for the skills you had sweated for on your own merits. "They only wanted to teach me useless things. Such as calligraphy and tea drinking," you huffed as Pharaoh led the two of you through the underground passage, your voices echoing. "Ah, we've arrived at a crossroads, Your Majesty. There are three paths in front of us."

Pharaoh silently tugged you towards the one on the right. You simply had no other choice but to trust him to keep you from getting lost. He gave no outward indication he was still listening to you; for all you knew he had tuned out your voice to focus on navigating the labyrinthine halls, yet still you babbled on, unable to help yourself.

"Let me rephrase. My lord uncle was responsible for my calligraphy tutor. My stepmother had insisted I learn to be a...a good hostess." Of course that shrew wouldn't want you to learn too much, too soon; you were the final hurdle that prevented your stepbrother from attaining the throne, and she never wanted you to have any ideas that would lead to...unwanted, unnecessary thoughts of becoming a Queen. "She did not approve of my alchemical research or my other pursuits. Neither did my lord uncle." And neither did Ife, who had tried to kill you for those very reasons. "Still, these skills were necessary when I was selected to be the Bride of the Moon. And I shouldered everything without overt complaint. I didn't care to join our patron god's harem of wives, but I dutifully attended all of my lessons."

Walking side by side with this man in a lonely cavern far below the surface, moving towards an unknown destination, your lips were loosened. It was a heady thing, to speak so freely of what had transpired in your past, to someone who was wholly unconnected to those events and influential enough to protect himself from possible retribution from the Holy Empire. Not even Mahaado had heard this much from you. You had adored his stories, his presence, but the watchful eyes of the Emperor Delphini's spies forced you to hold your tongue on most matters. You had feared for his life when he had expressed his concern for you the day before he'd left, concern for how you had become a Bride at a young age.

Wrapped in shadows and fire light, it was as if you were back home on Genova, except this time you were exploring new frontiers alongside a reliable companion who was skilled at navigating through the twisting, dreary tunnels, even without sight. And this companion belonged to an entirely different realm than you or Mahaado. There was no doubt in your mind he would return the favour a hundredfold should the Holy Empire take umbrage against him for the information that freely spilled forth from you like the fountains in the palace gardens.

It was then you finally realized he was still holding your hand, had been holding your hand the entire length of time you had traversed these passages together. Judging by the firm grip, he would not release you even if you asked. This time however, you did not feel resentment or fear towards him for it. No, if there was a single person on this earth who could keep you from the moon god's pale clutches, it would be none other than Pharaoh himself. Instead it was an all-encompassing sadness. If only you did not have to fear both these men, whether gods or the avatars of gods; if you did not have to fear your blood smearing on their blades and washing down the banks of their shores, perhaps you could have even grown to love him.

"Why did you stop?"

"I...I'm sorry?" you blurted, all of your thoughts coming to a stuttering halt. It had been several minutes since you'd last heard his voice, and hearing his silken tones suddenly reverberate all around you, the deep timbers magnified by the darkness and the caverns, was akin to being caressed from head to toe, devastating tingles sweeping up and down your spine.

"Why did you stop talking?" Pharaoh asked.

"My deepest apologies, Your Majesty!" You were positive he had been thoroughly annoyed by your incessant chattering.

You heard him sigh as you indicated the new fork that had appeared in the underground path, and he led you down the one on the left. "I was listening."

"You...you were?"

"Despite your status as the crown princess, your lord uncle and your stepmother didn't bother to educate you in governing your kingdom," Pharaoh said, speaking plainly. "Am I correct?"

"Of course I also received a royal education, with all the expected subjects which the heir was required to learn," you defended. You did not want him to think you were lacking. Besides which, your stepmother couldn't prevent your uncle from hiring tutors for you; it would raise too much suspicion. She needed to pretend she loved and supported you so when she killed you, none would accuse her of the treachery.

"Be as it may. You were expected to sit pretty as a royal figurehead while a male successor of Emperor Delphini's choosing, either your husband or perhaps your younger stepbrother would manage the affairs of your territories in your name. And no matter how self-sufficient, talented, or intelligent you proved yourself to be, you had no hope to ever be taken seriously by your guardians.

“You are a woman of immense pride in your personal successes. To be continuously denied the acknowledgement for your achievements, and to be pushed to the wayside for your stepbrother simply because he is a man and you are not...this insult planted the seed of resentment that you harbour towards them. Am I warm?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," you stammered, utterly astounded by his astute observations. His words cut bone deep, and it exposed your inner world to him.

"Oh? I think you do know. You are inexperienced, but shrewd. I do not doubt you would have led your kingdom to greater heights than what Emperor Delphini had managed. But you were ignored. Was this a factor in your reluctance to take hold of power, and with it responsibility? Are you afraid I would have you sit quietly by my side without a voice of your own, just as your lord uncle and stepmother tried to do?" He paused, considering his next words. "You also said that you didn't care to join your moon god's harem of wives. I now understand your distaste for royal marriages."

If only he knew the truth of the Bride ritual, you mused silently. Of course, reserving this detail would only have possessed you with a guilty conscience had you not been harbouring worse secrets, ones which could have burned nations to the ground, and you at the stake.

"I also now know you enjoy learning new things, and that you are an attentive and diligent student," he finished with a satisfied grin that you did not like. "I will be sure to remember this for later."

"I never said that I enjoyed learning," you retorted.

"Yes, you did."

"When?"

"I can hear it in your voice. You clearly dislike your uncle and stepmother, but you still enjoyed learning calligraphy and tea making despite how useless you think these skills are. You liked receiving education in those subjects that you were required to learn as the Bride of the Moon. I defy you to tell me you hated riding and archery, or even alchemy."

You had nothing to say in response. It was incredible, how much attention he paid you in not just your words but also how you delivered them. It was as if you were the focus of his entire universe.

"As I told you, I was listening," Pharaoh reiterated.

…

“You aren’t listening!” you cursed loudly, your ire towards Pharaoh restored.

Shortly after the two of you emerged from the underground passage at last, walking into Pharaoh's private training grounds, he had allowed you several long seconds of wonderful respite. In those seconds you had stood on the edge of that peaceful clearing, surrounded by an abundance of cultivated pine, wholly convinced that you had successfully prevented the young monarch's untimely demise and your own subsequent execution.

Pharaoh then led you to a small wooden table for a seat, and announced his intentions to practice his knife-work and his body strengthening exercises; foregoing his usual chariot training in favour of giving you a personal demonstration of his physical prowess.

“So you may appreciate your future husband’s body in full,” he husked, the teasing edge sharp and tangible. “I know you are curious. Your questing fingers on my face and chest told me as much.”

“As if I need a demonstration!” you disputed, indignant, surging to your feet from the comfortable chair. “Please excuse me Your Majesty, I must depart immediately. Your private training grounds are much too small to fit you, your swelling ego and I at once!” To your growing resentment, he laughed heartily at you. Laughed!

It was your intent to leave the swaggering peacock to his own devices, it truly was. But you forgot all about escaping him when he removed his tunic and cape without warning, baring his masterfully sculpted upper body to you for a second time.

A piercing shriek erupted from your lips at his depraved display, and you immediately covered your eyes before they betrayed you, fingers parting so that they could cling on to the sinful stretches of exposed skin on his manly chest and wide shoulders once again.

“How dare you strip so shamelessly in front of a lady!” you berated him. “Have you no decency?”

If his conceited smile stretched any further, it would connect with his ears.

“Why inconvenience myself with decency for a matter of a few days? You’ll be seeing a great deal more after we’re wed after all.”

“Your Majesty!”

“Stop covering your eyes, you’re not yet relieved of your responsibility to be mine.”

If you had not been convinced before, here was evidence that he was deceiving you. You scowled, though said nothing of it.

For a moment, he asked you to lower your gaze. “I need to prepare the grounds for my training,” he said. “While my blindfold is removed, I do not wish to offend you with my eyes.”

“My words yesterday — my intentions — ”

He silenced you. “I have heard more apologies than I care to hear for one morning from you. Lower your eyes, if not divert them.” This would be the only warning he would afford you before the clothe came untied. He had turned, so you could not match his eyes even had you actively sought them.

Then he disappeared entirely into the groove of cultivated pine, returning with a gargantuan mace scraping the rough earth carpeted with shed pine needles, and a collection of throwing daggers secured to his waist. Under one arm he hauled a a straw target dummy.

Dropping the mace he hoisted the dummy above his head with both arms, thrusting the base pike of the frame into the ground.

You did your best to avert your gaze from his flexing back.

As the second, third and fourth targets were affixed, you found this progressively difficult. He was a magnificent sight to behold, undeniably.

“Develop a familiarity for this terrain and observe as I do,” he advised, reaching the back of his head with the ends of the blindfold. He faced you once the black clothe once again obstructed his eyes. “These private training grounds are now yours also to train.”

“Your grace is imme — ”

“Spare me,” he grunted, retrieving the discarded mace with blind memory.

By the conclusion of the better part of what felt to be longer than a few hours of watching the young emperor split open collapsed tree trunks with a mace you knew weighed three times as much as you did, assaulting the air with the bronze monstrosity and various other exercises which caused his muscle roped arms and back to clench and unclench as he carried the weapon effortlessly through the air, you had grown hot, and uncomfortable. It was a strange attraction, and you knew not what to do with him. What did you want to do with the sight your eyes were feeding your desires?

He was still a murderer, but you had grown frustrated.

Abandoning his mace, he reached for his knives, and you raced to his side. “Your Majesty stop,” you called for him. “That’s quite enough.” Arriving at his side you seized him by his wrist. “This is childish. You have made your point.”

“Is my betrothed showing concern for me?” His gravelly tone would have been swoon worthy had it not been accompanied by the fox-like smile.

The young monarch had now turned, his chest the only object consuming your field of vision. It towered, his sinewy frame, perspiration embellishing his deep olive skin; the rise and fall of his breaths intoxicating.

His eyes were covered you knew, but you could not bring yourself to lift your eyes, nor object the grip with which he had arrested your wrist, reversing your hold.

“You’re too merciful to tease me thus,” you began to say.

“And you’re too honest to so brazenly lie to my face,” Pharaoh replied, breathing heavily. “Of the many opinions you possess of me, you and I both know, merciful is certainly not one of them.”

You swallowed your lips at the rebuke.

As he moved away you wondered how long you had been holding your breath. He summoned a handmaiden of his; she brought with her a platter of fruit. Sorting with his fingers through the assortment of fruit he settled on a ripening mango.

Peeling the yellowing skin, he arrogantly prepared for you the slippery fruit, showing off his dexterity even without aid of his eyes. As he returned to blindly pitching knives across the clearing, victorious, you’d idly pluck at several of them, but during the minutes you watched him practice, you had only eaten one.

Though not for a lack of sweetness; you were simply too distracted. He was an enigma, an unstoppable force not to be trifled with. If he applied himself to it, he would have as much difficulty executing you, as one would have in squashing an insect on the underside of their sandal. So needless to express, the allure he held, drawing you in as if the pull of coursing river currents after a rainstorm ravaging the countryside, was frightening. It was bigger than you, all of this; all of him.

In those moments which you held all of his attention, in those transient seconds where you were deceived into believing he held you as if his whole universe, you were bewitched. Perhaps for this reason, even more, you had come to fear those moments; afraid his attention would overflow to consume you, or worse that they may run too thin as if water in a drought and dispose of you. Yet beyond all reason, you craved it, as if a moth to a flame to its demise.

If you had any inclination for survival, it should have been then you lifted your skirt and ran.

Instead in your daze, you communicated your mental torment in the most peculiar expression. You had shot at the bloodless king with a fruit slice.

Never in a million years had you expected it to meet its target; granted, it had not been executed with much thought.

The succulent slice of mango glanced off Pharaoh’s shoulder just as he let loose another dagger, breaking his concentration. The dagger sailed wide, and passing the straw target by several feet, it tumbled into the ground.

Was this a bid for his affection?

You obviously possessed a desperate desire to have signed your death warrant.

He whirled to face you. You shot to your feet. You imagined beneath the blindfold, those eyes which were whetted indicolite would be blazing. You fell to a deep bow, though he could not see and as he approached, with each advancing step, you mirrored it in retreat, unable to hold your form.

Shedding his belt of daggers, his steps forward grew quicker, and bunching your skirts into your fists you ran, pine needles crunching under your soles.

“For a woman, you possess the grace of a wounded aardvark,” Pharaoh remarked of how you navigated the pines, his chasing strides matching with one your every four or five. “No matter how far you go,” he said, “I’ll always find you.”

With the entrance to the secret passage in sight, muscle knotted arms wrapped around you from behind. In your ear he whispered, “Does my betrothed want to play with her future husband?”

He had lifted you off the ground, his sweat seeping through your dress, soaking the fabric sheer. If you could have in that moment succeeded in ripping from your throat weighed by your pounding heart a squeal, you would have been satisfied.

An apology...you needed to muster enough wit to mutter an apology; only nonsense would come. “Your Majesty I — forgive this — this thoughtless subject I — ’’

“Seto,” he husked; inflicting a frisson through your body. You could feel his lips burn against your ear, blowing in hot breath. “You have done nothing to warrant an apology; as my lover, it is within your right... to ask for me.”

Why was the sound of his voice at its deepest so pleasurable? Even when the shadow of death still loomed, ever suffocating.

"...No. Ridiculous," you said, all but snarling the words. Did he think you a fool? "How do you just brush such an insult off? How do you overlook such a slighting without some form of explanation? You certainly don’t get to invite the person who had pelted you with fruit back into your arms, not without some kind of ulterior motive! I will not be toyed with, Pharaoh!"

For a long moment, the Tyrant of the Black Lands was silent. And then he spoke your name. "Do you know how long it has been, since ascending the throne, I have had an equal?" he said in a conversational tone of voice. "Not merely in one field or specialization, but in general?"

You scowled. "What does that have to do with...?"

"Never," he interrupted you, his tone still perfectly calm and composed. "I have never had an equal. Oh, there were those who were more experienced or more educated or more popular than me, early in my reign...but taken in totality, there has never been anyone that I can truthfully say I regarded as an equal."

His expression stern, the man who would be god's avatar on earth tightened his hold around you, his grip unrelenting; his entire presence, unrelenting. "You are not my equal, not as you are and not as you were... but you could be. You have honed your body into something which threatened the daughter of a warlord. Your insight into the possible ramifications of Ife's execution indicates that you have an outstanding intellect, when you choose to apply it. More than that, you have pride, the desire to stand apart from creation and the will to pursue it even when all the world stands athwart your chosen path. I have waited years for you to come along, and now that you have arrived, I would be the greatest kind of fool to set you aside so lightly."

He chuckled slightly. "Since you clearly wish to ask...yes, had another done as you did, I would have likely punished them out of hand. As it stands, I have never claimed to be fair. Disrespect from my subjects, no matter their station, would be given painful retribution. From you however, disrespect is all but expected. More so when we are finally wed, you will be powerful and influential enough to stand your ground and not simply be swept aside by anyone."

"...So as far as you are concerned, I can get away with this because...I am important?" you said slowly.

"More or less. A pawn can be sacrificed freely, and discarded when no longer useful, but a Queen? A Queen is worth protecting, worth sacrificing lesser pieces for. Hopefully that is enough to satisfy your curiosity? It was never my intention to toy with you. You are worth far more respect than that: as my wife, my lover, and in time ideally my Queen."

He set you down; his hands were wandering. You were spun to face him.

His large palm came to rest over your cheek, his fingers brushing back the hair thrown over you face in the frenzy. You were arrested, you could find in you no thoughts to object.

Fear; it existed, though something more called for it to be quiet. How would it be, that curiosity asked, to be with him, as his lover if even for a second, just as he wanted?

The fear protested, and you treaded a step back; he followed. You repeated your motion, and the waltz continued. Another step, and you lost your footing against a raised tree root. He had leaned too far into you that he had secured no foothold of his own.

He collapsed over you onto the ground; it wasn’t comfortable, the prick of the dried pine needles on your back. And you were some euphoric cross of mortified and mesmerized. You observed every twitch of his fatigued muscles, the rain of the desert sun through the canopy of tall pine seemingly spinning in your daze; the glisten of his perspiration as it dripped from the sharpened tips of his fringe on to your forehead.

Your fingers reciprocated the attention his afforded you, reaching up to hold his face. His skin was firm but soft. Your rugged breaths forced your soft breasts to press against his chest held taut; innocently unaware of his plight.

He rasped your name with uncontainable passion and your wide eyes followed his lips as they lowered to find yours. Enveloped in a trance, you begged him closer; your fingers slithering up his temples to knot in his hair.

At the touch of his lips your mind shattered, the sweltering need his lips injected, spreading all over.

 _God please forgive me._ You did not believe in a god, so you did not need permission, but what he was doing to you felt so sinful, and you knew not what to do with yourself.

It was a moment of weakness, playing the lover of the bloodless king.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let us know what you think :)
> 
> Dress: https://pin.it/5ua2mhrzq43yoz


	7. Seventh Circle of Hell I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Est: This chapter contains traces of a lemony scent. Nothing too intense, just...NSFW.

 

Everyone was weak before the bloodless king.

A great wind stirred the pines, and beyond the hot blood flooding your veins, you were acutely aware of the movements of every single needle of pine in the groove as if it were an extension of your own body, and then, as his lips pressed deeper, that awareness flashed to white.

Blood was coursing under every surface of your skin, so you felt as if you would lift right off the ground, while all at once being weighed by the molten liquid, pinned to where he held you.

Your head was swimming in the fresh traces of the spices lingering on his pulses; earthy and sharp, overwhelmed by the musk of his sweat.

Your heart, it throbbed in your throat, threatening to suffocate if you did not swallow, but you wouldn’t swallow; couldn’t, and you would simply allow him to consume you.

His lips were not hard and punishing, as you had anticipated. If only they were, for then you would have fought against him with all your strength...

Instead his mouth was a fiery brand, consuming you inch by hungry inch.

Then there was a wet probing that made your lips part instinctively and you almost cried out at the sensation of the gentle intrusion of his tongue in your mouth.

Your body seemed to melt at the simplicity of it, and then he coaxed your own in motion with his, to taste and tease as he was doing to you. He tasted of lotus tea, spiked by some sweet-spice. Nerves were firing off in ways you had never felt before and your skin was tingling as your lips and tongues danced in a thorough, plundering rhythm together with his.

There were no words, no, he had persuaded you to forget your own name.

His warmth was melting iron wrapping your skin, and slowly his hips began to grind against yours. You moved in time with him, as if hypnotized. Something long, hard, thick, and nearly scorching hot prodded your thigh, distracting you only for a second. You dismissed it as one of the throwing daggers on his belt, forgetting that he had already discarded those blades awhile ago.

A strange ache assaulted your senses, and you felt your nipples scrape against the fabric of your dress. Between your thighs you felt that aching hollow the strongest, and you could feel wetness seeping from your body.

Two hot bodies writhing on the forest floor they discovered you. There was hesitation, certainly, anyone encountering such a sight; the young monarch pressed against his lover splayed beneath him, clothing dishevelled, would stumble. One would not be jumping to conclusions if they assumed he was ready to make love to you where you laid.

The Vizier found himself resentful of what he had witnessed, while wishing he had not encountered such a sight all the same. There were rumours that the future Queen was already bearing his Majesty’s heir. What he saw before him was only confirmation of the relationship you shared.

Passion was not an emotion his courtiers had known could be expressed by Pharaoh, and there was something so stark and feral in its nature. It was not fitting, and it was not romantic; rather it exuded possession and danger.

  
When Pharaoh disengaged himself from you, you were left breathless and bereft. Utterly confused as to where you were or what was happening. You barely heard the uncomfortable throat clearing somewhere outside the bubble of pleasure that had encased you; all your senses could focus on was the virile form of Pharaoh straddling you, his weight pinning your soft form to the forest floor. You watched, enthralled, as his hands reaching up to undo his blindfold and those deep blue eyes were revealed to you in all of their glory, and you shuddered at the invasive gaze raking over you possessively. The plea on your lips for him to continue his sinful ministrations died when he slowly stood up, pulling you with him, holding you tightly against his front. You felt his lips press against your ear, urgently calling your name. “We have an intruder in our midst.”

The words were like the sharp prick of a needle, bursting the bubble all at once. Behind you, you heard the voice more clearly this time.

“Y-your Majesty, it pains me to have...interrupted your time with your betrothed.” Sennefer tried to apologize, and even with your lack of comprehension of the local dialects you understood the grovelling tone he was using. “I wouldn't have imposed had I not come bearing some important — ”

“Cease your stuttering, before I cut off your silver tongue which you are so proud of,” Pharaoh said with a forbidding growl. “And you insult my betrothed. Speak your mind in the common tongue, or speak not at all.”

“Very well, Pharaoh,” Sennefer said, smoothly switching languages just as demanded of him. “I've come to inform you of the trial to be held a day from now, for Ife of the Desert Minnows.”

"How quaint. A trial, held for a treasonous rodent who was caught in the act? Are you expecting my gratitude? For a trial I did not sanction, no less."

"Your Majesty. We have already sent word to Ife's father, Chieftain Kafka, and contacted the most trusted of our ministers. Be at ease, for I have everything in hand."

"Is that so? Have you come to give me 'leave' to attend this farce you've arranged without my knowledge? Is that why you've come?"

"Your Majesty." You were impressed by Sennefer's tenacity, and his tight rein on his own frustration. He still looked as poised and unruffled as ever. "To insult you in such a manner was not my intention-"

"Stop wasting your breath."

Sennefer appeared to straighten himself. "Relations with Janam have suffered, Your Majesty. Our informants at the Rise report that Prince Charmles' death made it exceedingly difficult for the nomads to acquire specific ingredients they use in their prized concoction, as the peasantry of Ashenvale refuse to barter with 'desert mongrels'. Local merchants have also reported that they have been evicted from their stalls by their Janamese landlords. Worse still, the Prince of Nomads has yet to do anything to assuage his subjects. I fear the reparations will be steep. In light of this, it would be prudent to approach Ife's sentencing with utmost caution. She is the daughter of a popular warlord, and we cannot afford to lose any more reputation amongst the other nations."

"That drunken fool of a prince never does anything to assuage his subjects," Pharaoh said, dismissing Sennefer's entire outburst, and with such nonchalance that you might have found it amusing, were you not still mortified from being caught engaging in obscenities with the tyrant. "And he never asks for reparations because he knows he can't afford to war with me. No one besides the Red Emperor has what it takes to stand up to me."

"I must respectfully ask you to reassess the situation," Sennefer countered. "In light of his improving friendship with Vasusena's Empress Yashvi, we could see a coalition between Janam and Vasusena arrive at our borders."

"That would never happen, not so long as that infidel wishes to remain neutral," Pharaoh scoffed. "Enough of this pointless conversation. Remove yourself from my private training grounds at once, and don't bother trying to feed me this horseshit about international relations. I don't know what you're scheming with High Priest Ubaid, but it matters not. In the end, Ife remains guilty of treason and will be executed."

Both you and the Vizier could hear the finality in his tone, and Sennefer gracefully bowed. "As you command, sire." To your surprise he bowed towards you as well. "A good day to you, Your Highness, and my most heartfelt congratulations on your upcoming union with His Majesty."

As the Vizier walked away, his scribe at his heels, Pharaoh roared at the handmaiden who was standing off to one side, causing you to flinch alongside her. "Are you waiting for a royal decree? Or were you born retarded?"

The handmaiden snivelled her apologies and dashed away to do whatever it is she was meant to.

Only then did you find it in yourself to ask the question which had manifested in your mind during the exchange. "How does the daughter of a popular warlord become your handmaiden?" You wanted to pull away from him, but he was still holding you securely against his body.

"The Desert Minnows were one of many clans which had drained the royal coffers and placed this empire in terrible debt," Pharaoh responded dully. He didn't bother to hide his displeasure. "They are sellswords who've caused more trouble than they're worth. Ife had volunteered herself into service three years ago to settle their dues, and I believed her to be the only member of that clan with any sense. Until now."

"But she's..." You struggled for a way to couch your words. "Her father is a popular warlord, according to your Vizier. Wouldn't the execution of his kin alienate him from the throne?"

"They're worth more to me dead than alive. Khemet has sheltered them for generations, and they have many holdfasts, but these mean nothing in the face of their persistent mutiny in my court."

...

Trailing Pharaoh through the winding corridors, his robes billowing behind him with long strides, matching his pace was proving to be increasingly arduous. As your stubborn insistence on discussing the impending trial, was growing to be for him.

"Do you disapprove?"

The words came unexpectedly. It was not the first time that you had struggled to understand the complexities that comprised Pharaoh's mindset, nor would it be the last.

"You were more than generous," you admitted. "I was not expecting you to allow this trial. But I am glad."

"And yet you are still troubled."

"Sennefer...clearly has an agenda, but in regards to foreign policy he meant well, Your Majesty."

"Irrelevant. He wanted to take High Priest Ubaid's tribal girl and hide her away. For what purpose, other than to bring your legitimacy as my betrothed into question by using that handmaiden's testimony? I've only begun dealing with one usurper. I've not the patience to deal with another so soon, in tandem."

"If I might be so bold Your Majesty... I wish to attend the trial as well."

He sighed. "You have my word that Ife will be properly tried. She will be proven of her guilt before the eyes of the court before I deliver my sentence."

"That is not my intention. I simply wish to be present, as I am directly involved."

"That...I cannot promise you."

"Why ever not?"

"Only those of specific titles may attend, as it is a highly sensitive matter," Pharaoh explained, opening the door.

He threw open two grand doors, the open air pavilion held up by sandstone columns housed a beautiful, clear water pool, extending seamlessly into the river channel the pavilion overlooked. At first you were blinded, the sunlight illuminating the space contrasting greatly the darker passages you had traversed. The pool with meticulously cut steps descending into its depths on three sides; its continuation you understood now was an illusion, the forth dimension’s edge blurring against the still Nile.

For a moment the translucent curtains suspended around the perimeter, blowing in the breeze obstructed him from your view.

“Pharaoh, I refuse to simply await the outcome,” you persisted, defiantly on his heel as you whipped a dancing curtain away with your forearm. “More so that I am the victim in question! Please allow me to attend!”

“There is a way,” he said evenly, unfastening his robes and allowing it to pool to the floor. “But unless you ask it of me, I would not impose such a role upon you.”

“What...may I ask is this role you are so hesitant to request of me?”

Pharaoh met your gaze. “You would have no voice, no influence, and be wearing my crest. You would be my slave, my personal handmaiden.”

Your whole body came to a pause before his words. “Your — your slave and handmaiden?”

“As I’ve said, asking of you to strip yourself of your royal titles is not something I wish to impose upon you. Stay in my chambers and await my return after the trail. I will return straight to you an advise you of her sentencing.”

“...Your Majesty.”

“It’s settled then.” Distracting from your discontent, he peeled away his sweat-soaked tunic; the drenched linen falling to meet his stately robes from moments earlier. The decorative sash fastened to his draped kilt followed.

“There has to be another way,” you pressed, refusing his dismissal as he turned away, apprehending him by the wrist. “Your Majesty, I’m not done —”

He turned abruptly, baring you his naked torso; every muscle sculpted and defined, just as you remembered, though the memory nor experience would help ease the heat which welled. Your gaze laid arrested against the sight, before a forceful finger raised you by the chin to brilliant cerulean. You drew in a sharp breath, as if it would calm you; instead the wind brimmed your chest with pressure inflating to burst.

The white curtains were fluttering all around you.

“My decision on your attendance of the trial remains cannot he helped. Though I would very much like it...” he said, pulling you flush against his body, as if reading the darkest thoughts you held in secret even from yourself; the need to feel the ridges and valleys of his magnificent chest. His breath broke in scorching waves over your Cupid’s bow. “...if you would share a bath with me.”

Multiple frissons assaulted your composure already crumbling in on itself. “...Pharaoh.” You trembled.

He reached for the strap of your dress, gliding it over the curve of your shoulder; his lips growing ever closer. And as feverish as you had become to once again be at the mercy of his exploits, he had spared you with enough sense to be scandalized at the invitation.

The first which left you was what only remotely resembled a scream; more closely the shrill wailing of a banshee. You had flinched, curving into yourself as if a cowering armadillo. “Spare me!”

“I am not about to eat you,” he husked, blowing intentionally — you were certain — in your ear. It had the effect of warm spring’s breath in late winter. “Unless — ” his one hand crawled the contours of your body to grasp your breast “— that is something you desire of me.” You melted, but you would not be persuaded, untangling yourself posthaste.

You heaved a shaky breath, stepping away. If you looked at his eyes, it would devastate you. “Excuse me...Your Majesty. I — I am not feeling like myself, I must retire to the chambers immediately.”

With those words you spun on your heel, breaking into a mad sprint, never once looking back until you had found yourself collapsed on the bed. You had stumbled only once as you crossed his chambers, though you had not stopped to discover the peculiarly left out obstacle.

  
…

 

Your chest rose and fell with no hope of recovery. It felt as if the ceiling above grew closer each time your lungs filled with hot air.

You could not hope to make sense of those last words of taunt. What had he meant? How skilfully he had distracted you from your mission. It would not do.

When your breathing finally evened, you sat up on the bed, attention falling over the curious object which had been left sitting on the middle of the bedroom floor. Curious indeed, the blue bird fallen on its side.

You approached it with the utmost caution, naively expecting it to take flight at the first careless motion. Instead it laid there, unmoving, and for a moment you feared you had killed it, before a closer inspection revealed that it was carved from a block of wood. Carved by a skillful hand, certainly, but a block of wood none the less.

It was a toy.

You fizzled with child-like mirth at the realization, eyes glazing over the exquisite gradient of indigo fading to lapis fading to zaffre coating its sculpted plumage, brushed then intricately with strokes of gold to outline the contours of each feather. From its side stuck out a gold key; when wound it would perform a delightful trick.

You could not contain yourself, snatching it without thought into your arms, cradling it almost as if a thief — in fact you were no different, stealing what did not belong to you for yourself. In that moment it mattered not who it belonged to or what such a creation was doing left out in the middle of Pharaoh’s bedroom floor, only that it was a tangible piece of happiness against a miserable canvas of existence.

At the reverberation of a heavy door in the distance, you tucked the toy bird under the bed you shared; someone to keep the little yellow canary company in trying times.

You could not wait to see what turning the golden key would persuade the bird to do. Would it too hop, or perhaps would the wings flap and allow him to lift off the ground? If it could lift its heavy body and fly, how far would it fly? How far would it take you?

You straightened up at the echo of footsteps.

To your surprise, three of your handmaidens entered the chambers with Omar quietly marching in behind them. Under the Chief Inquisitor's stern gaze, the women stopped at a certain distance from where you stood and bowed.

Nepthys was the first to raise her head, her golden hair in disarray. "Your Highness. We were informed by the handmaiden serving His Majesty that you had returned from outside. We just wanted..." she was suddenly elbowed by the handmaiden beside her. "...I mean, we have been given leave to attend to you until His Majesty returns."

The handmaiden whom had jabbed Nepthys stepped forwards, seamlessly taking the reins of the conversation from there. "Would you care for a bath, or some refreshments Your Highness?" Her voice was oddly whisper-like, as if she were afraid to speak any louder. But it was also well modulated, and it carried across to you as if riding the wind. Your mind recognized this maid as the one who'd thrown herself bodily into Charmles to give you time to escape him.

You were abruptly made aware of how the scent of exotic spice and musky sweat clung defiantly to every inch of your skin. Mortification stole over you once again. Did they know? You carefully studied the expressions of your handmaidens. They were blank, revealing nothing.

A slight tremor ran down your spine. Perhaps a bath of your own was not a terrible idea. And refreshments would help soothe the strange heat which still simmered within your lower belly.

To your intrigue, the whispering handmaiden was left behind with a different guard. Omar himself followed you and the maids to the grand underground bathing chambers.

"She will have your preferred dishes served to His Majesty's quarters in the meantime," explained the friendliest of all your handmaidens, whom you now know as Mirina. "The finest dried meats, pickled vegetables, and a cup of my special fruit juice for your pleasure! I'm ever so glad the physician deemed it fit for your consumption, princess. Oh, if only I would be allowed to prepare my special cakes for you as well!"

Omar did not enter the bathing chambers, choosing to stand guard at the doors. Your handmaidens followed you inside, and to their credit did not bat an eye when you requested a short while to swim. You remembered from your lessons that you were to do a physically strenuous activity to cleanse your mind of any curiosity for the male body, and you hoped it would help.

The swim itself was very enjoyable. These large pools did not exist back home; the Holy Empire was not as inclined to bathe as Khemet. Allowing yourself to glide through the refreshingly cold water, you felt free. So free, you were reluctant to return to the edge of the pool where your handmaidens patiently awaited you, reluctant to return to the weight of your reality. But you never once thought of drowning yourself as you swam. No, the idea never crossed your mind. What had changed, between yesterday and today, that would banish the longing of death from your heart?

When you returned to your handmaidens, they were in awe of you. Particularly Nepthys, who had not once stopped talking about how you were like the sirens that were rumoured to lead fishermen astray.

"So. Princess." Nepthys' voice became quite mischievous all of a sudden as she gently scrubbed your left shoulder.

Mirina gasped, and her face flushed deep crimson. "No, you can't possibly! I thought you were jesting...!"

"How large was His Majesty?" Nepthys asked eagerly, causing her fellow handmaiden to choke on air and redden further. "Was he a mighty stallion, as the rumours claim?"

You were utterly confused by the wording, and her tone. Was this some sort of joke you were not privy to? "He's very large," you responded, referring to Pharaoh's impressive height, and his wide shoulders.

Mirina's scandalized gasps were but noises in the background as Nepthys leaned towards you, her eyes shining with curiosity. "Would you say it was...this long?" She held out her hands in front of her, as if measuring something invisible.

It occurred to you that perhaps she wasn't referring to Pharaoh's body, but the size and length of his throwing daggers. It made perfect sense. You had just returned from his private training grounds, and it was possible Nepthys had yet to see him use any of his daggers and wanted to know what they were like.

"No, it was about this length," you corrected her to the blatant surprise of Mirina. You held up your own hands, hoping to emulate what you'd seen. According to your memories, it would have been nine hard inches.

Mirina appeared ready to faint dead away where she sat, staring in morbid fascination at the measurement your hands showed them.

"What a beast," Nepthys muttered under her breath. Her cheeks had reddened as well.

Both women looked at you in awe once more. The feeling you were being left out of some private joke was still present.

…

You returned to the chambers to discover he was yet to. You could have done a great number of things in the liberty of being left without company in his chambers; save for escaping — presently a heavy guard marched the outer courtyard’s perimeter, the Chief Inquisitor now added to the patrol outside the door.

You were halfway to retrieving your newly discovered toy when the memory of the inconsiderately placed bird sparked an impish stroke of brilliance.

You called for the handmaiden Mirina, she seemed a settled spirit when held against Nepthys. She bowed as she approached, cautious as Omar followed in at her heel.

“I have a favour to ask,” you told her, and she bowed a degree deeper. You glanced past her to the giant of a man suffocating the room with his silent presence. It was more than a little unnerving, his scrutinizing gaze which resembled a hawk. “You may leave,” you advised him, “I think I’m in good hands.”

“I’m afraid — ” he too bowed deeply, following the cues of Mirina, so blatantly under versed in courtly etiquette “ — until His Majesty had returned to accompany Your Highness, I am to be present at all times ...in light of recent events.”

...In light of recent events. It was strange, you thought, that no one would speak a word of what had transpired. It was too naive to believe that the servants were all collectively oblivious to the attempt on your life, not with how quick Nepthys was at extracting information. It was curious not one gossiping servant spoke of the sudden assignment of extra personnel outside the doors, the guards shadowing each handmaiden.

It was disconcerting, and the thorny feeling creeping the hairs on the back of your neck that you were being excluded from some private dialogue took a grim turn, growing broader beyond the confines of some joke amongst the handmaidens; seeping into the conversation at large.

You would dismiss the discomfort thought it could never truly be expunged from your thoughts, as you applied yourself to the task in mind with which you had summoned Mirina. Omar’s continued surveillance was a development which could not be helped.

“I want to play a joke on His Majesty,” you said, obscuring your intent of testing his blindfold ploy under a veil of euphemism.

“I must advise you against it, Your Highness,” Omar immediately intervened. “His Majesty does not take kindly to those he deems is attempting to disparage him.”

“You have not even heard my idea yet!” you protested.

“He does not look well upon humour...” Omar replied, “as a principle.”

“Surely he will have some compassion for his betrothed given my recent condition,” you said, meaning of your recent fainting spells, hoping to paint some illusion of intimacy. “And earlier at his private training grounds, he seemed to find great pleasure in my...mischief.” That the word could be misinterpreted with explicit connotations did not immediately make itself apparent to you.

Mirina hissed, muttering some hasty quip to Omar in their native tongue which eluded you.

“Of course,” he quickly straightened at the reprimand. “My apologies if my words spoken in true concern, in turn were delivered with a tone of disrespect to Your Highness.”

“Not at all,” you were quick to respond. “Pharaoh has committed himself to doing all sorts of activities with that blindfold of his —”

“All sorts of things, Your Highness?” Mirina appeared positively mortified.

“Yes, did his lady in waiting not relay what he had been doing engaging in when she was summoned?” Surely she had also witnessed the egotist’s display of blind knife tossing?

“Certainly...Your — Your Highness,” she stammered. She looked as if she was intoxicated or had suddenly come under the influence of a heat stroke.

“Are you quite alright?” you asked after her vermillioning complexion.

“Yes — I just did not think Your Highness would be...comfortable discussing such topics.”

“Why ever not?” you asked incredulous. She would not elaborate. “As I was saying. I would like to move some furniture across the room to perhaps discourage him from his...shall we say commitment to the blindfold.” Both the handmaiden was well as Omar appeared nonplussed at the suggestion. “Well you see, I tried to move the chaise occupying the space next to the large window in his study but — ”

“Your Highness, you mustn’t,” Mirina said, “we would not won’t any harm to befall upon His Majesty’s heir.” There was sure reluctance as she spoke, almost as if her tone trudged with heavy steps across the room to reach you.

“What on earth do you mean?” you questioned baffled. You would become his Queen, not his heir. Again, she would not afford you any clarity. Shaking your head clear of the riddles this handmaid spoke, you asked of Omar to aid you in displacing some pieces of furniture across the chamber.

He was humbled to oblige.

Soon the chaise in Pharaoh’s study found itself barricading the path from his office to the bed chambers, the chairs he kept by the bedside steps and by the wine server in disarray across the centre of the room; as you had found the little blue bird.

By nature, you disliked objects plucked and misplaced from their original stations, so any more than those three pieces of furniture, and you would have been at a great unease. And so there you stopped. Surely these hurdles would be enough to test the king’s aptitude for navigating new surroundings and by extension the legitimacy of the blindfold’s opaqueness.  
  
As if on cue, as you reached for the toys you had stashed under your bed in the absence of the help, a pained grunt resounded from just beyond the entrance of the bed chamber. He had found the first obstacle.

You couldn’t help the giggle which fizzled from your lips like black-cherry tonic.

“What is the meaning of this?” you heard the low growl of his voice from closer a proximity than you had calculated him to be. For a blindfolded man, he moved at an impressive speed; of only impressive was in some land a passable euphemism for dubious.

He stood steps past the doorway, donning from what it appeared a fresh blindfold, feet from stubbing his toe on the first of the two chairs guarding the course leading up to you.

Why were you suddenly overcome with the compulsion to warn him? You hoped to erase the thought as abruptly as it had invaded your thoughts. Instead, you would do nothing.

He had thrown his arms forward, grasping at the air as he threaded forward with caution. It was executed with more grace than you could hope to with a pair of eyes on the back of your head.

His right arm made contact with the first chair, and he smirked, smoothly sliding the chair a safe distance away to his side. “Your bold sense of humour amuses me, princess. Certainly, with a woman such as you by my side, I would never grow bored.”

This was an unintended, and rather unfortunate side effect. Surely there existed a better way by which you could verify his claim.

  
“Your Majesty, wait,” you said, stepping hurriedly down the stairs to his side. You swept the second chair away from his general vicinity.

“A second chair?” he questioned, judging with concerning accuracy by the scrape of the chair legs against the limestone tile. “I grow intrigued of your agenda, my betrothed.” His blind reach for you connected with the side of your face. With a stroke of his thumb he gently caressed your cheek. Without thought you placed your smaller palm over his.

“I must confess, I’ve been skeptical of the transparency of your blindfold, Pharaoh.”

“Would you not rather — ” he tugged you forcefully by your wrist into him; his other arm snaking your waist as if you were a captured butterfly needing to be pinned in place “— test my sincerity for yourself?”

You did crave the touch of skin, though you would sooner die than hear those words manifest in open air.

“Touch it,” he coerced in your ear; his voice a warm brush of cinnamon, “feel for your self the thickness of the clothe binding my eyes.”

And at the command your longing fingers crept, as if by the work of some puppet master — he was ultimate the puppet master — to press against his fold; inevitably lingering over his naked skin for moments longer than you would have liked. If only he had released you this morning with all of your sanity in tact, this would not have become of you. You had been compromised.

You had no idea how thick the clothe was, but you could detail in poetry the velvet press of his skin at the ends of your fingertips. You were a madwoman.

The Pharaoh parted his lips to speak, though it was a woman’s voice which came from the direction of the chamber doors, “I could hardly believe my brother when he regaled the story of your blindfold, but now I see he spoke the truth.” It was as if honey, sweet and rich, was being generously poured into a cup of warm milk. Only it lingered long after with the aroma of biting spice."Your Majesty, this isn't like you at all. I find it very endearing."

"What have I told you about prowling too close to my quarters, High Priestess Merneith?" growled Pharaoh, not bothering to turn around and properly acknowledge the mysterious lady who had appeared in your midst.

Meanwhile you were taken aback by this statuesque, strikingly gorgeous woman who could enter the royal living quarters of the bloodless king without a hint fear. Immediately your eyes were drawn to the sheer fabric of her gown, similar to what you had been made to wear, her full breasts and long legs on display in front of both man and god. The golden chain draped around her neck fell past her breasts to her stomach, calling attention to her shapely hips and thighs. Her ebony locks were even lengthier than yours, styled in such a way that it appeared to float about her in waves with the slightest of movements, like some erotic cloud.

You hated her instantly.

"Pharaoh, I can sense even from here that you are still quite frustrated," she cooed. "Why did you turn down my offer in the bath chamber? I could have assisted you then. I am your...humble servant."

She was in the bath chamber with Pharaoh? Could she have gone to him after you'd fled? A bitter taste settled on your lips and tongue at the thought. Your imagination conjured up images of Pharaoh extending an invitation to this brazen hussy in the same manner he extended it to you.

"You only needed to have ordered me, Your Majesty, and I would have gladly submitted myself to your every desire. Instead of using your own hands in the absence of your betrothed, you would have been able to find release with me."

"A man does what he must do, when no other woman will suffice," Pharaoh said dismissively. "You overstep your bounds once again, High Priestess."

The conversation was difficult to follow. His words bounced back and forth in your mind, eluding clarity. What does a man do, which he must do, when no other woman would suffice? Suffice in regards to what exactly?

"My intentions are entirely sincere, Your Majesty," Merneith tried again. "Twas the first I had ever seen you so...dissatisfied. A woman can only take so much seed before it endangers her life. Your betrothed is but a mortal. You can't seriously be considering to focus all of your lust upon a single woman, and an inexperienced one at that."

"Leave. Now." Pharaoh had still not bothered to turn around. His stern command made you and the interloper flinch.

"Very well, I shall oblige you Pharaoh. We shall see each other at the trial." Her eyes looked you up and down. Those soft velvet orbs were unreadable. "But if your young and inexperienced betrothed fails to satisfy your needs, know that you are welcome to come to me. My body is ever your temple, Your Majesty."

 

"Who was she?" You demanded the very second she had left. You were overcome by a blistering anger the likes you'd never endured before. What was this sudden surge of possession devastating you?

"She is called Merneith, the High Priestess of the city of Nezusir. Currently she is responsible for overseeing, training and organizing the battlefield medics. She is also Sennefer's blood sister."

“What business may I inquire did she have in your bath chamber, Your Majesty? And how is she permitted to attend the trial while I am not?”

“Careful,” Pharaoh teased, “I hear your jealousy dripping like poison from your lips princess. Though I must say, it is...alarmingly tempting.”

“Once again, I do not know what you mean, Pharaoh. I genuinely wish to know how I, who as you said is destined to be your equal is forbidden from the trial while a High Priestess is permitted.”

“You as you are, though you maybe a crown princess to a different empire, here, you hold a title no higher than a royal concubine.”

“So a slave may enter but not a concubine?” you contested.

“You may enter as my possession or not at all,” he replied.

“Very well,” you said resentfully. “What must I do to become such a possession?”

…

  
“You’ve been rather silent,” Pharaoh said. “I think it is enough that you’ve deprived me of the sight of you, oblige at least in indulging me with the sound of your voice.”

You had been convinced the silent hum of the surrounding Nile which fell like a curtain over the veranda was enough to keep him company; any words exchanged were always, partially drowned. Yet in that moment you realized perhaps that the abrasive raking of your knife over your plate — granted, unconsciously done in your state of depression — as you sliced your pork was more an assault upon his senses left unbound.

“What would you have me say?” you asked him dejectedly.  
  
“Your aversion for conversation offends me,” he remarked, carving into his own meat.

“It is not aversion as much as it is that I have nothing to say.”

“I certainly find that hard to believe,” he said with a suppressed snarl.

“I wonder what you mean Your Majesty.”

“With how you’ve been acting as if an extension of myself to wring me of as much information of the trial as possible, your sudden silence is intriguing.”

“Whatever I have been curious about,” you responded, “I will now see for myself, when I attend as your slave and possession.”

“Ah,” he drawled, “so that is the root of your despondency.”

“I must admit I’m not thrilled about the station I’ve been assigned, though in your own words, one must do what one must.”

He roped you into reluctant conversation several times following the quip, almost always revolving topics which were inconsequential. You did not think the sky looked any different today than any other, nor that the unrelenting heat had alleviated under the winds circulating from the North. From how he refrained from speaking any further after pitching the questions, you did not think he possessed any overt interest in the subjects either, though he continued to ask, then wordlessly listen; it was the strangest of exchanges you had participated in. Usually, men would never listen, especially not to what they considered the trivial opinions of a woman.  
You had become conditioned to dread the conclusion of every meal. Even ahead of it being placed before you, the bitter aroma of the tonic manifested in your nostrils, compelling you to wretch. Then it occurred to you, handmaidens were not assigned to feed you the brew and the man self-appointed, presently was without the ability to examine your sincerity.

At breakfast, he had relied on your word — you had been honest then — and now, having thoroughly inspected the integrity of his blindfold, you were persuaded he would be none the wiser.

As had become routine, the potion was placed before you. You raised the bowl to your lips with one hand, the other palm, clutching a linen serviette covering your lips. You tipped it a degree steeper than necessary, allowing the herbal cordial to drip past your closed lips, onto the awaiting clothe to be soaked up.

An animated smirk painted itself on Pharaoh’s face. Your eyes glanced with anxiety towards the gesture.

“Do not try to take advantage of my generosity princess,” he said, his tone of caution betraying his amused countenance. “Many before you have tried, and it has never worked for their benefit.

“Drinking your medicine is not a punishment, in fact to be attended by my personal physician, it is a privilege.”

Wiping your chin, you sat silently in a state of petrification.

“A friendly word of advise,” he said. “Should you be so brazen as to attempt this a second time, at least try to emulate the sound of you swallowing the medicine.”

You slowly set down the stone bowl. “I have committed a crime worthy of death,” you quietly muttered.

“Do you not have anything more authentic to plead with?” he said, rising from his seat.

His slender fingers grazed the wood buffed to a smooth gloss before he found the bowl of tonic. Reaching for it, his other hand sought your face; with his fingers he traced your features to memory. This now a blueprint in his mind, he lifted the cup to your lips, guarding your chin so you could not escape swallowing, with a cupped palm.

“I only have your recovered health as my sole motive,” he said, his voice a warm tonic of its own. And you swallowed grudgingly, your whole form recoiling from the bitterness as the cordial coated your tongue and throat.

It grew plain in your mind now, that if you were ever to outwit him, even a shred of his consciousness would be your undoing.

…

Late evening and you had retired to the side of your bed, drawing absently the constellations painting the stretch of night sky between the chamber windows with your finger. Mahaado said he had much to teach you of the wonders of the heavens after the blinding veil of the sun was removed; he had said that it was during the night when you could truly see. And yet, you were never allowed to meet after nightfall, and all his stories were only that, stories, and lessons from drawn books.

The nightgown was shameful, and your ankles heavy. This was your reality, though you were much too young to fully accept it.

Your heavy sigh must have resounded into Pharaoh’s great study, for it summoned him as soon as it had broken from your lips.

“Are you feeling unwell?” he asked, crossing the chamber to sit by where you were splayed over the bed; his path now unobstructed.

“No, sire.”

“Your despondent sighs tell me otherwise. Why, they could cave the ceiling in. Are you — ” his bearing of concern transformed to something more sinister before your eyes “— perhaps yearning for a morsel of your future husband’s attention?”

Your response was quick to leave you. “I assure you, Your Majesty, that is definitely not the reason.”

“So you admit you are displeased?” He was skilful in tightening the noose.

“I am...not...” you confessed in a small voice, “content”

“What may I inquire,” he spoke solemnly, warm palm finding finding your cheek, “is the root of this?”

“My ankles pain me.” You had spoken before you could consider. Contemplating that you could not salvage the situation, you took the offensive. “Your anklets pain me. They have chaffed my skin tender and made my joints grow sore. It is terribly painful.”

For a moment he would not indulge you with a response, and your heartbeat quickened, fearful of a most painful retribution. Then slowly, so slowly that at first you could not be sure if it moved, his hand rested on your cheek trailed the rises and falls of your body’s contours, seeking the offensive anklets.

With meticulous precision, he unbuckled the dainty clasps. “When I crafted these for you by hand, my intention was not to inflict pain upon you,” he said. “Though that the purest of gold and the most brilliant of gems are the heaviest, cannot be helped.”

You swallowed at his tone straddling sharpness and a warm thickness. “I do not mean to slight your consideration, Pharaoh.”

“No.”

Lifting the last anklet away, his palm replaced it, wrapping delicately over the sore appendage. “Here?” he inquired, applying the slightest pressure.

You winced, nodding. It would take you a moment to realize he was in the most literal sense, blind to your response. “Yes,” you then added in a gentle whisper.

With lithe pulses, his fingers began to relieve the pain lacing your ankle.

At your protests, he held tighter, bringing himself to lay over you, his forehead against yours. A hollow aching renewed itself at the pit of your stomach, and you parted your lips open and closed, as if a suffocating fish, as you fought to resist the impulse to press your lips against his, hovering a hairsbreadth above yours.

He was the mortal enemy of virtue, you screamed for your thoughts boiling for some release you knew not how to achieve. How could the brush of his lips over your pulses invite such indecency into your mind? He was an invader by nature you understood, but intruding into the thoughts of another you could not forgive. It was violation, how he undressed you to be vulnerable before his ministrations.

You hoped conversation would distance these sensations. “This morn — morning, how have — have you come to know so — so much of the Desert Minnows’ fortunes?” you asked in broken stutters; that a man could know so much exact detail of a woman and her family, her clan. You in some far recess of your mind wondered how much he knew of you and the main and cadet branches of Delphini's Imperial Family.

"The Chieftain of the Minnows had hoped I would take his daughter as a bride," Seto said, his tone even. "As a gesture of goodwill, I took Ife into consideration for a brief time."

A simple inquiry, a straightforward answer. However, you were not fooled by his nonchalance. "No man studies another's family so much for only a peace-cow," you accused. Try as you might, you were unable to keep your voice from wobbling in response to the delicious sensations he was making you feel against the column of your neck; though the lightning spilt the arouse the strangest junctions. "I would have the truth, Pharaoh."

Suddenly, his wandering hand felt so much more invasive, as his fingertips began to slide up your leg from where they had been massaging your ankle. White fire lanced through every pore and nerve ending in your body from his touch. He chuckled lowly at your physical reaction, and he burrowed his face in your neck.

"The truth?" His voice was a low rumble in your ear. "The truth is I've dreamed of them. Or rather, of killing them."

The questing digits crept into your inner thighs, tantalizingly close to your womanly centre. Breathless gasps were all you could express, the words you had planned to say reduced to ashes in the fire that he stoked within your belly. You were effectively imprisoned, by both his shocking actions and words. He took your silence as a cue to continue.

"There are four living generations of the proud Desert Minnows tribe, princess. Four generations of thorns on my side. Children and grandchildren and even great-grandchildren. Marriages and fosters and wards...I would delight in rending the flesh from their bones, that glorious clan, generation by generation, from the youngest to the eldest. Perhaps not all, mutilation might drag on after the first two dozen."

His fingertips became emboldened as he spoke in a thick whisper, generously massaging the soft flesh of your thighs. Unbidden, your knees weakened from both fear and that other, unknown but equally compelling emotion. His lips pressed against your wildly beating pulse.

"Some by drowning. Some by fire. Some by impalement. Some by poison. I would see children die before their parents, brothers die before their sisters, grandfathers to witness the mortality of their so-called divine blood. Slowly or quickly I do not know, but I would relish in it, relish in the extinction of their lineage."

"Why?" At last you had gathered enough of your wits to say something coherent. The rest of your inquiry was lost however to the feel of his teeth gently biting down on the tender skin of your neck, and his tongue lapping at the same spot as if to soothe it. You were unable to prevent the tremors rocking throughout your entire body. How could the pain be so pleasurable, you couldn't understand.

"Why not?" Seto asked rhetorically, his lips searching for another spot. "It's ever so rare to see a family truly die out in the Black Lands, princess. To do it to a clan so large as the Minnows..."

His chuckle sounded positively wicked to your ears.

"There are grander tribes to do it to, that is true. Any of the tribes to the South, or from the edge of the Great Sand Sea are large enough, that is true. But the Minnows are larger, and a clan of coin mongers would not be missed so much. What a glorious sight it would be..."

Only then did it occur to you that Pharaoh was jesting. He had to be, to say such outrageously bloodthirsty things.

He had to be.

"You are a cruel man, Pharaoh," you managed to get out when his hand lifted away from your inner thigh at last. It traveled slowly, slowly up your stomach to your breasts, kneading them through the thin fabric of your nightgown.

His response did not assuage you. "I am ever but a dreamer. Only an idle dreamer."

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Est: I like putting NSFW warnings at the tops of chapters. I like it even more when other authors do the same. It helps me find the dirty stuff faster, and I always read those parts first! ...For research purposes, you understand.
> 
> \--
> 
> Dress: https://pin.it/fdvx5atoyiy5qa
> 
> Not mentioned but since it’s implied she changes after her mid-morning bath: https://pin.it/nsgzvgti5vr4m5


	8. Seventh Circle of Hell II: The Perfect Crime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We intended this to be no more than 10000 words.
> 
> *tears of blood*
> 
> 16000 words... How could this happen...
> 
> Anyways, it happened! So we hope you enjoy this! It's like two chapters in one!

 

  
This was not attraction. Attraction did not burgeon between your hips or in the junction of your thighs and set aflame the pit of your stomach. This was something far more sinister. Far more sinister in fact than the most sinister sentiment humans nurtured of all; love. A misguided deviant of which launched warships to burn empire across seas to the ground.

Tethered to the young emperor in his embrace he held so securely by his muscle roped arms, you woke up to the bare sight of him.

The Northernly wind settled over the sheets and your skins beginning to dampen with the heat of the morning sun.

The anklets he had marked you with again before bed called to you; your ankles reminding you of their burden.

The blindfold still held its place, concealing his eyes. Of course, he was nothing if not consistent, and it was precisely this attribute which lended urgency to your need to leave his side. He was nothing if not consistent; why should you believe he would afford you special treatment?

And yet more than ever, your instinct to flee was battling a weakening resolve. He was slow acting poison, seeping through your skull to ail your better judgement. Your body was reacting to him, oh so violently and you knew from how your body burned that he was sin.

In this sleeping state he could not ground you; he could fool you into believing he was harmless. If only you could render him thus; the man who gave you moral poison.

It was a moment of inspiration, certainly not brilliance though an epiphany none the less.

Poisons and potions were not difficult to brew, if only procuring the instruments and ingredients were not. And it would react with the guards outside much the same.

To put to sleep a merciless emperor — you ran your palm over his smooth cheek — it could be the end of you, but you would meet your end regardless if you stayed and this obsession he played out for you was inspiring new treasons.

If he wanted so badly to be seduced, perhaps you should afford him what he so desired.

It was brilliant. A brilliant way to expedite your own execution. You would have those thoughts burn with your hot blood. A tranquilizing mix of fear and reservation setting over those plans as he stirred.

He had been awake this whole time, he spoke with too much eloquence to have woken in that moment, though the morning rasp of his voice thickened his words.

Your finger had finished their quest grasping the side of his face, and in your moment of mortifying realization could not recoil, afraid your sudden motion would elicit a taunting remark, if he was not planning one already.

Instead he drew you closer, his every muscle pulling taut as parted lips sought yours across the pillow. At the end of a journey which spanned mere inches, they found you, and they kissed you. And you could find it in yourself to do nothing.

In fact a very beguiled part of you did not want to pull away, pressing yourself closer; tangling your legs further. That far removed part of you believed you needed this, that both he and you deserved this, and you could not before this moment have said that you knew mortal fear.

For your morality to be compromised, it would be everything.

Even in the morning, his breath did not smell foul, or even sour, and you would believe the claims his followers and subjects made of his divineness. You grew conscious of yourself, he could not see you but how did you feel...how did you taste? You believed this to be the greatest plight of a woman, when she began worrying for how her man saw her, you’ve been told, it was the end.

So you began praying, chanting endlessly in your mind as his lips continued their ministrations of great evil, on your lips, your cheek, your jaw lending way to the pulse of your neck; this too shall pass. The way shackles binding enslaved demons to men faded and passed, so shall this.

It was a different kind of execution, the ravaging of your sanity.

“I’ve spent far too long denied of the sight of you.” He called you away from the faraway disquietude of your mind by these words spoken in a hoarse husk; your name leaving him last in a register which scraped at the sandstone walls. It was easy bait, did he know? “The feel of your skin will no longer do.”

His fingertips memorizing the shape of you explored the space from your face to the valley of your clavicles, rushing to the surface a wave of fine hair standing as if poison needles on your prickling skin. As your breasts felt his touch they erected, as if reaching for more, and you were disgusted.

Reaching behind his head, he undid the binds of the dark clothe with one hand, shedding it over the sheets beyond your vision.

He was hovering above you, arms anchored beside your head, caging you. Brilliant sapphire caught the morning light, a golden spark rippling across the clear surface. Beyond it, eyes so blue you drowned. They were mesmerizing, and terrifying, and paralyzing.

“Exquisite,” he breathed.

“My words for you,” you replied before a thought could persuade you against it. It had always been on the tip of your tongue.

It was all the invitation he needed, snatching you into his arms and spinning you with urgency. He brought you to straddle his lap, his back against the headrest as he for a moment sat perfectly still. He inhaled deeply, committing to memory every detail of you, and under his scrutiny you faltered. You found yourself desiring to appeal to his tastes. This was a different kind do treachery your mind played.

“Is something the matter Your Majesty?”

Under his linens you could once again feel the contours of his hard dagger pressing an intimate place; blood rushed to places you did not think they could swell. You weren’t unaware of the fact that he concealed one on his person — your eyes drifted to the weapon revealing its jewelled hilt from under his pillow — though you did not believe he was so paranoid that he would carry two.

“Comfortable?” he questioned with amusement which felt to be enjoyed at your cost.

“Actually, no,” you responded, writhing against it in hopes of pushing the protruding dagger away. You were growing hot all over and you suspected the ripening sun over the horizon was innocent.

A feral look was brewing in his eyes. An inadvertent and rather reluctant grunt left him, drawing your attention to those eyes brimming with predatory intent. He appeared to be in pain.

You repeated your earlier query, asking after his condition, and a response most perplexing would come.

“Take responsibility,” he said, just as his hand wove into your hair against the base of your skull.

Before you could voice your confusion his lips had become your captor, and under this silence he demanded, he forced his bulging dagger up into the junction of your thighs. The soft flesh gave against the fabrics separating you and your sigh of contentment broke past his ravenous lips.

You collapsed from a weakness finding strongholds in your beating stomach and burning thighs and his lips continued their welcome torment against your neck.

Strong and slender fingers crept to your aching breasts between bodies hungry to merge as one, and by some mysterious instinct you arched forward, a glutton for anything he would deal you. You writhed and moaned, relishing the crush of his hips against yours; the twist of his fingers on your elongating nipples.

“Do you like that?” he asked, his laugh tainted with smug accomplishment. Each flick of his fingers was euphoric and intoxicating.

Yet the question sparked defiance, and from the refuge on his shoulder you shot up. “No.” You could not hope to escape him so simply. Heavy arms tightened your frame with the threat of crushing your bones, though you were sure actual pain had not been his intention.

“Your hooded gaze betrays you, my betrothed.”

“There is nothing to betray.” Your response was a thin breath, stubborn in your heady fit. One hand returned to its previous post against your sensitive mounds. Your shallow breathing spiked.

“Your Majesty please...”

“Please what?” He laughed again, his register reminiscent of melted cocoa diffusing in waves to fill every distant corner of the vast bedchamber coming alive basking in early sunlight. It was robust, warm though if he wanted to, you could imagine it being chilling. As you held on to the last lingering remnants of his haunting laugh, a whisper just as warm and every bit invasive stole into your ear. “What are your reservations about this? You’re allowed to be with me this way. I can tell you’re enjoying this,” he said, wild eyes flickering across your expression.  
  
Yours was a mirror, doe eyes moving against his in anticipation of the elusive promise in those blue blades.

Slowly but decisively, you found yourself being laid supine over the sheets as he clambered over you as if an advancing ocean tide, claiming your small frame between his powerful arms. For a muscular man his movements were lithe, and entrancing, and so you watched, you watched his eyes as if being called home.

In all their terrifying magnificence, you couldn’t escape their pull, like yesterday’s river currents.

“Say my name,” he said, leaning so close his breath poured over your skin; cheeks burning.

“Seto.” It was unavoidable, falling into him. It was impossible, not drowning.

A line etched between his brows, expression creasing in deep thought. Then he buried his face into the crook of your neck, and the rest of his body fell over yours in a willowy wave. His hand sought your inner thigh, and you could only feel warm friction caressing down your legs to find your ankles weighed with gold.

Folding your legs up, in between them, his hips rutted against yours, a fleshy firmness you were beginning to believe could not be his dagger swelling against your soft junction. It animated a yearning deeper, igniting molten embers in your lower belly.

He sucked in the soft skin of your neck between velvet lips, suckling and nipping where your pulse beat. He dealt the column of your neck with raw welts, your skin mounding up with an aching pulse of their own. They would bruise maroon and red, you knew. The noises you made as he did this to you were surely cries of pain. You could not understand, he only gave you pleasure.

Your heart, you thought it would beat out of your chest.

He lifted first just enough to meet your gaze. Was he in pain? You could not decipher the meaning of his tense eyes and clenched jaw. Then he pulled away, face hovering low over your body splayed beneath him to lay a passionate kiss on your ankle.

You watched arrested, as his lips began a ravenous journey along your leg, deep blue pools reflecting wide eyes, never leaving yours; scorching lips left a trail burning in their wake. That shameful place between your legs dampened your inner thighs as if anticipating him and surely, kissing every inch of your soft skin, his questing lips arrived there.

It was his tongue lapping at the seeping wetness on your inner thighs which animated your senses, and your limp arms threw themselves up to grip his hair, knotting in the silky tresses as you tried in earnest to reject him.

You could not fathom how something so perverse and savage could be so desirable.

“No! Please — please stop,” you pleaded, legs thrashing. He was not a man easily dissuaded. “Your Majesty what are you — you can’t, please — ”

A reedy gasp pierced the room at a distance. It did not belong to you. And the sharp intake of air drew the attention from the frenzied struggle.

The young, and undeniably handsome emperor lifted away his head from between your legs, his wild locks falling over cerulean eyes clouded equally with ire and remnants of lust.

“The— there — there is a — I just thought — Your Highness —” she shook her head as if a wet dog. “—I mean Your Majesty — a guest...my lady.... ”

Your eyes which had lost focus found a thoroughly disconcerted Irene, ogling at the sight of you; you in all the humiliating state of moral undress he had devastated you to.

Your centre still throbbed, the wet heat governing every unraveling nerve ending of your undone body, heaving for air. Still, swollen lips parted, coated with his saliva, and body smelling of his musk, you could only lay there. Your legs in full view, your skin marked scarlet with the claim of his lips, “Please don’t look at me,” a quiet voice left you. At first, you would not recognize it as yours.

You did not want to be exposed as his plaything, as some whore who had given in to moral decay for a transient moment of pleasure. But that’s what you had become; you had given him...every part of you. And he had ruined you.

“Speak your mind or get out!” Pharaoh barked, arms anchored on either side of you as if to shield your form. It assaulted every surface it met, and Irene recovered barely from falling to her knees. It did nothing for her composure, stripping her of every last shred of it and she dissolved into a paroxysm of weeping nonsense.

“There’s — there’s a guest — they — she requires your audience, sire.” Leaving the vague declaration awkwardly in the air, she turned clumsily on her heel, stumbling out of the bedchamber.

It was unlike her, entering without first announcing her arrival.

“Half-witted wench,” he thundered after her. “Who requires my audience so urgently that you thought it appropriate to intrude upon my personal quarters without my permission?”

Fearing the wrath he may unleash upon her, your trembling fingers latched his shoulders. “My king, forgive her, the girl is still young and has much to learn. Punish me for her transgressions. I should have taught her better.”

Nervous eyes drifted between you and him.

Pharaoh would only spare you a fleeting glance, dismissing your pleas. “I asked you who?” he instead addressed the quivering handmaid, eyes narrowed in threat.

“Forgive me Your Majesty! I have committed a crime worthy of death.” She fell to her knees, forehead kissing the smooth tile. “She — she called herself — high — high priestess Merneith. She...she said you would come if I only advised you her name.”

He would come...if he only heard her name? Was your betrothed some mutt to cater to her beck and call? Your blood boiled at the audacity.

“Get. Out,” Pharaoh hissed through gritted teeth. And she obeyed, without a moment’s hesitation.

In her absence, in the room now empty of all but the two of your quiet company, the expended energies and pitched exchanges settled into an uncomfortable stillness, you tried to keep him from slipping away. Why? It was a question you would not ask yourself, afraid of what unsavoury truths you would discover.

For a long few moments, you would only breathe; the soft rush of air as your chest rose and fell dissipating the silence.

“Your Majesty — teach me...teach me the affairs of your royal court, I’m eager to learn so that I may — ”

“Perhaps another time,” he spoke distantly, slipping away just as you had feared. Into the arms of another woman, surely?

Draping a cloak over his wiry physique, he instead sauntered across the room, and out the archways spanning — from where you sat on the bed — the far left wall, into one of the many open air verandas overlooking the Nile.

You would have pursued him, had he not been poison affecting your better judgement, but his beautiful face — oh that tantalizing gaze almost made up for all the sins he embodied. Almost.

…

Your steps were quick ascending the stone steps leading back to Pharaoh’s quarters from the baths. As you reached the last step, a distinctly feminine voice found your ears, followed by a familiar baritone.

With a swift extension of your hand you halted Nepthys and Mirina from advancing and gestured with a pointed raise of your index finger for the two women to be perfectly silent before creeping along the edge of the wall to the passage entrance.

Your heart tumbled at the sight. Of course he was too busy to instruct you on the nature of his court, you observed furiously. When entertaining with another woman, where could he possess the time?

On your either side, your handmaidens attached themselves to your hips, their inquisitive gazes joining your surveillance effort.

Before your very eyes Pharaoh slipped his knuckles beneath Merneith’s chin. Tilting her face to focus on his, he gazed down at the High Priestess and said something, his expression completely calm, not a ripple over his smooth skin to betray a hint of emotion. You could not see Merneith’s face, her back to you, though her head fell forward, nodding in response to what he was telling her.

When he finished speaking, Merneith stepped back. She said something, and abruptly stripped away her sheer sleeves. The embroidered bodice tore with her sleeves, baring her upper body entirely in front of the bloodless king; not as much as a skin of onion to shield the sight from his pouring gaze.

You moved without conscious volition. The heels of your sandals rapped out sharply as you stormed inside the chambers towards the conversing pair, your handmaidens hardly a step behind you.

“Princess, watch your step!” you heard Mirina whisper urgently at your back too late.

In any occasion your ire was inspired and worse yet whetted, you would not noticed anything that was not of consequence to the object of your fury. It was a weakness, and a strength. Only vaguely aware of the state of the room, you pressed onwards, your arm tensed to strike like a cobra, to be undone by a piece of parchment. The room slipped before you, walls falling up, or perhaps that was your gaze, though you did not quite find a landing amongst the explosion of parchment carpeting the room.

Valiantly you applied yourself to staying upright. Behind you, your handmaidens moved to catch you, Pharaoh dispensing a simultaneous effort for your collapsing form. Instead you felt a pair of slender arms hook around your waist, the skin much too silken to belong to your servants.

“Now that I see you up close, you are so very cute,” High Priestess Merneith cooed as she steadied you. “It is no wonder His Majesty hoards you away from the rest of the palace. Your hair — ” curious fingers gently stroked your tresses — “...is a thing of beauty. Soft to the touch. And the way it smells! I don't recognize this scent. Is it native to Genova, or the Holy Empire?”

For a moment you were nonplussed. Everything a flash in your memory, your mind needed more time to process the events that had led you into the embrace of the impudent harlot who’d stripped herself in front of your betrothed. Pressed against her front like so, you were being treated to an unwanted feel of her flat stomach and firm breasts. And then you felt her hand which had been in your hair treading down, down to the small of your back. It was to say the least, unsettling.

“Let me go,” you stammered, wrenching yourself out of her surprisingly strong grip. “And please cover yourself!” The dress which bared your own breasts was setting no more noble an example, though you tore away at your cloudy, draped sleeves, lending them to conceal her naked chest. “This is no place or manner for a lady to expose herself thus.” The words had been rushed, evidently, nervous from start to finish, and at their conclusion you drew a stiff breath as if to regain some semblance of composure.

 

It was in vain, and your face burning with shame, you fled into the bedchamber, forcing closed the heavy wooden doors and collapsing against them. You had never attempted closing those gargantuan slabs of wood before and you were certain the act, performed with some comical sensibility in the audience of both Pharaoh and the High Priestess watching you with stoic yet bewildered gazes only worsened their already marred opinion of you. They likely thought you some foreign, fumbling, circus monkey with a volatile and undecided temper. You could feel sweat pooling and flooding from every pour, your heart stuttering in a paralyzing rhythm.You buried your face in your palms for a moment, before shooting upright to pace the room, your fingernails caught between your chattering teeth.

In a way your fumble had been a blessing, you tried to nurse your wounded pride. If you had struck Pharaoh across his face like you’d planned, the headman’s axe would have been a mercy compared to whatever punishment the bloodless king had in store for you.

Distantly you wondered why so many papers had been discarded so haphazardly. From what little you’d seen, His Majesty was a meticulously organized individual. It occurred to you, though always a distant concern in some far recess of the inner workings of your mind flustered by the blunder you would surely never recover from.

In some other distant corner, pacing by the widow, you found yourself calculating the height you would have to throw yourself from to accurately snap your neck. You had arrived at one conclusion among the many dilemmas plaguing your mind and it was that it would only be death which could salvage you from the deep humiliation from which you would never recover for as long as you lived and breathed in this court.

…

Lunch on the veranda; the rush of the Nile and the susurrus of the reeds were your companion. The silence, you would admit was in part your unwillingness to participate in conversation, though deep in thought, Pharaoh had hardly made a passable effort to initiate dialogue.

This was welcome, the shame still burnt deep, and it renewed itself fresh in your thoughts each time the wind brushed your shoulders stripped of its sleeves, bare to be harrowed. You would soon be changed for court, and your torn attire replaced, but you feared your tarnished dignity may never will.

Though the most present point of contention was an invitation. The seductress had called for Pharaoh’s chambers once more and dispatched a handmaiden of his, requesting she be invited for lunch with him, and worse still, she had asked for this audience alone. She had asked, in other words, the exclusion of you.

You looked to the young monarch who seemed as expressive as lukewarm water about the announcement. In his impassiveness, he lacked irritation, or repulsion of the news, and this frustrated you most of all.

“You’re a convincing liar, Pharaoh,” you said, popping a grape pointedly into your mouth.

“It is but an expectation of my position.” He paused, only now fully looking at you. “But I feel your words to me hold a meaning more ominous.”

“That you will never lay with another. For a moment I was fooled.”

“I was under the impression those words had fallen on deaf ears,” he returned your hostility. “I see they have not.”

“I never take promises lightly.” You smiled wryly. You yourself could not be certain what had roused such ire.

“A principle I live by,” he concurred, swallowing a sip of wine from his chalice. His eyes on you were undecided between a glare and a studious gaze. “Though I don’t recall ever straying from my word.”

“Priestess — high priestess Merneith. What is she to you, Your Majesty?”

His lip crooked the way a feline’s tail curled inwards at an object of intrigue. “Is this jealousy I sense?”

“You should not be so lucky.”

“Arrogant, I like that.” His finger slipped under your chin, as if to hold you under it. “If you’re hoping to seduce me, princess, I should warn you, your methods are most effective.”

You could not find any sense in the direction the conversation was blindly spinning. “I do not know what you mean,” you said, wiping your mouth with a linen napkin and motioning to stand.

You had taken a handful of steps in the opposite direction of him when he called your name. You ignored his summoning, your thought cogs spinning violently to justify the bout of possessiveness you had displayed over the man you persistently insisted to have no romantic inclination for. By his third call, his tone had shed all lingering traces of warmth.

“Another step and you will regret your defiance,” he growled. The legs of his chair scraped limestone as you assumed he stood. “Even with you, there are limits to what I will entertain.”

Skin swept with a chilling prickle, his hand found your shoulder. Waves of hot breath only made you colder. A shiver ruptured, spilling your body over.

“If you were asking to prove my singular devotion to you, you need but ask,” Pharaoh said, his voice lulled to a mellifluous hum; it would not fool you with a sense of safety. “Was our affair in the bedroom this morn too short lived?”

You could think of nothing clever to interrupt his egotistic rant. As he pressed again for a response, and it became certain his taunting was not a rhetoric inquiry, you strung together a poorly thought response. “How could I be so bold as to demand something so hefty of you?”

“I would think as my betrothed — ”

“That it is within my rights? Your Majesty, walking away from you without your permission is not within my rights — ” you turned to face him, “ — how could demanding a monogamous relationship be?”

Ah, but you had already known this to be an impossibility, hadn’t you? Both your own father and your uncle, even your honoured grandfather and all of the males in the Delphini line had had at least two wives, and many concubines. Romantic love was only the secondary concern. Your entire life had been endangered because your father Valerian could not be satisfied with one wife. Your survival had hinged on escaping the battle for succession against your stepbrother and stepmother, and you would not stand for being thrust into yet another conflict for the crown.

And then it occurred to you. “I believed Khemet was against promiscuity. Was I gravely misinformed?” Mahaado had been the one to tell you years ago that couples were expected to practice loyalty and devotion to each other, never to stray. You remembered this small tale because the idea of an entire nation of men willingly committing to one woman had been such a novel, utopian idea.

“You are a womanizing rogue, Pharaoh! Never did I realize this until now!”

His hands shot out, winding around your wrists and snatching you against him. “You continue to refuse me outright. You scorn my eyes, my sincerity, and you try to run away. And yet you would have me be devoted to you and only you when you refuse to be my wife! Don’t you dare insult my honour when you are the one who has wronged!”

“I have wronged?” You were painted every shade of indignant. “Then tell me what I have seen...Try as I may, I cannot un-see it.” There was a distinct ring of tears haunting your voice.

“Un-see what? What exactly was it that you think you saw?”

“The man promised to me — promising himself to me feasting his eyes on another woman bosom stripped bare! Am I mistaken? I beg of you to tell me that my eyes have deceived me.”

His voice continued to ascend in severity, competing with yours escalating to a piping shrill. “What you saw was without context. Do not be so quick to accuse me on a partial understanding of the situation.”

“So enlighten me then.”

“I do not have the time nor patience — ”

“No. No you do not have the time to teach me anything but you have the time to entertain and seduce a stripping whore! Do I mean so little to you?” It was a nonsensical inquiry, a brazen one at that. What right did you possess to have him define how he valued you when you could not think of an outcome more bitter than disposing yourself and future as his wife and Queen? What did you think would happen in your absence? Did you want him to remember you?

Tears pricked your burdened lids and when your blurred vision finally found focus of his face, there was a misplaced look of compassion settled over his features. With a careful thumb he scraped away the burning tears cooling as they spilled under the weight of the harsh breeze.

“Do you know what you want from me?” Pharaoh asked in an even tone. “Think about what you hope to accomplish in our relationship. Think first of if you have sincerely committed to me and this nation, then ask of me the husband you want of me. You’re confused, and you’re hysterical. I cannot deal with a petulant child. Answer yourself before you demand them of me.”

As he walked away, all you could think was how smoothly he had evaded your query. You had worded it in the most snaring and blunt manner, and he had still slipped away. The slithering bastard.

…

The gown for court was simple; though embellished with an elaborately beaded neckline, from the weave of clear glass beads, the simple silk fell straight to the floor, concealing all shape but the curve of your chest. In any other occasion, a gown so plain would have been an insult, though for a slave with no agency, this was a privilege. Supposedly, Pharaoh did not want his betrothed dressed any worse than a lady of noble rank, even if it contradicted your stripped titles.

The handmaidens gossiped as Asim braided your hair into a milkmaid’s bun. It was inconsequential chatter melding to the background punctuated by the older maid inquiring after the tightness of her pull.

You were some cross between demanding their silence and using the drone to drown your mortified thoughts when Pharaoh decided on your behalf the former as he entered the bed chamber.

Standing from the vanity, you met him with a shallow courtesy. It was habit before expectation and in fact you understood the formality irritated him.

In all, he was a magnificent sight to behold. Whether it impressed of terrified you, his mere presence, you were yet to decide, though around him the air grew thicker, and a crushing sense of smallness enveloped you in your simple dress. He wore the weight of a caravan of camels in gold; on his bulging biceps there were gold rings, more encased his ankles and his wrists. A heavy collar of gold weighed his broad shoulders, encrusted with large blues diamonds which contested with his eyes, though always to lose. A belt identical in design guarded his waist, from its centre extending a triangular plate onto his cobalt kilt, embedded once again with blue gemstones descending in size. The ensemble bared his muscled chest, the sculpted physique only obscured by a stretch of silk ivory draped from his shoulder to his waist. It gathered under the belt to layer his short kilt and fell past his shoulders to become his ceremonial cape, billowing dramatically and dusting the floor. His headdress was familiar, gilded wings of Ra opening across the front. He had worn it the day you had been gifted to him. The tall, cylindrical crown concealed the glisten of his tresses, only sparing his carelessly falling fringe.

The diverse collection of rings he boasted on slender fingers you could forgive, the ostentatious signet ring which bore his emblem you could understand; men in your empire wore the same. It was however, the wildly elaborate, sapphire studded earrings which you could not conjure an appreciation for. Men did not wear earrings, on any other it would be comical. The decoration second only to the theatrical, black ink lining his upper eyelids. It flared so...dramatically. You could already assume his skill for calligraphy.

“I see my betrothed has found interest in my earrings,” he observed, unclipping one from his ear.

“They certainly are very...interesting,” you said, suppressing the urge to clear your throat.

“Following our union, you shall be expected to wear one half of the pair to court,” Pharaoh said, holding out his closed palm, gesturing for you to open yours.

You accepted the earring, the pure metal heavier than you had imagined. It should not have surprised you, the piece was as large as a royal seal. If thrown, it could give a man a concussion, possibly knock them dead. You wondered if everything in his realm was intended to be purposed as a weapon.

Upon closer inspection, it was not garish. The tear drop earrings depicted a winged figure marked with a cross which symbolized life, holding up an orb of sapphire, glittering as if the cosmos. The jewel was surrounded heavily with lighter blue gemstones. Seeing it closer, it inspired a certain reverence.

Behind him, past the threshold of the bed chambers, his expression of freely offering you the earring inspired reverence in the handmaidens for the relationship you appeared to shared with Pharaoh.

“I take it you are fond of it?”

You would allow no outward enthusiasm to seep into your features. The beautiful earring was no reward nor compensation for marrying the tyrant.

Without lifting your eyes you replied impassively, “It is certainly very impressive.”

Perhaps the lethargy in your voice was too steep, for it stirred a resentful silence. His response was no warmer. “And yet your reaction seems as if I’ve asked you to attend a mourning. Or is being in a pleasant mood in my presence an impossibility for you?” It was less an inquiry and more a growl, as of he were tearing with his teeth the words from the open air.

You strung together a weak apology.

“What is it now?” he asked.

Your silence was your falling.

He repeated your name with equal if not more pent aggravation. “Have you also gone deaf? Or can your childish temperament not be helped?”

You would say nothing.

“Speak!” he demanded, finding only more stunned silence and a gaze which would not meet. Perhaps he sensed your discomposure or perhaps careful not to escalate this heated exchange — or lack there of — of words into a commotion before the eyes of the servants, he inhaled deeply. “I had believed we were finding common ground,” he said. “Was I mistaken?”

“...You were not.” It was not a dishonest response; you had in moments lacking clarity experienced some obscure passion for him.

The room held its breath, and you, inadvertently with it.

He spoke drawing another breath, “Then what is the cause of this sudden expression of dejection?”

That you had for a brief moment imagined a future with him, that a life together with him had been the root of your dispiriting, was it prudent to tell him?

With parted lips which had closed many times at the absence of words you sighed. “The trial, my king, I’m apprehensive of the outcome.”

He as he was, nerves sparking to detonate, your attitude challenging his last fibre of patience was petrifying. You could hear the beating hearts of the handmaids a few yards away. Or was that your own rising to your ears?

“I am afraid,” you spoke with deceiving honesty. The sentence was in every sense practiced. Acting was a daily expectation of the royal courts back home. “Would you hold me?”

You did not want to be held. You did not want to be in his embrace though in that moment, playing the damsel in distress of something else, being in the cold blooded king’s embrace was a luxury to being at the end of his sword.

Your will to live had not been restored, but the desire still very much had a pulse.

“And this is the woman who is supposed to bear me my children,” he husked, drawing you by the arm against his hard chest. “You’re no better than a child yourself.”

The whimpering was a reaction to the sudden embrace, though it lended itself in fortifying your act. As his remark of children was in fortifying misunderstandings of your condition amongst the servants.

While the mechanics of it was elusive to you, the thought of bearing his children was truly a repulsive act thought.

It was likely an insignificant detail though it amused your dry humour, the steady beat of the heartless king’s heart.

…

  
The great audience chamber thundered with the steady booming beat of twin drums. The towering doors opened, and the amassed crowd of the empire's notables turned and bowed low as Pharaoh Nekhtsethenes in his full regalia, flanked by the gloriously armed and white cloaked Inquisitors, strode inside in a stately fashion down the aisle towards the dais. Your much smaller form trailed directly behind him, his shadow and extension, carrying his sceptre.

A whispered cacophony of mutterings you couldn't hope to decipher followed you as you climbed up the limestone steps to where the golden throne was. You waited until Pharaoh had seated himself before reverently bowing and holding out the sceptre. He impatiently gestured for a nearby slave to relieve you of the symbol. The Inquisitors spread themselves out in formation on the dais, with Omar standing at the very bottom step, directly below Pharaoh, an impenetrable wall defending the divine son of Ra.

And then the Lord of Two Lands held his hand out towards you, beckoning you closer. There was no point in delaying the inevitable. Steeling your nerves, you grasped his fingers. Sparing only a glance in his direction — though you would not meet his eyes — you situated yourself upon his lap; sweeping the long skirt under in one fluent motion of your arm.

A storm of words brewed and spilled up from the sea of minister up to find you on the dais. It was all encompassing and all consuming. It was familiar, as the dust storms you had outrun crossing the barren desert were, and reminded you of the first day you had crossed the threshold of his court. The whispering were tangible like desert sands you could grasp but could not help spilling from between your fingers.

It was impossible to not be acutely aware of the eyes distending from their sockets, the surprise mixed with something else...anticipation for something to happen; a response.

You felt his arm slither your waist, adjusting you closer. This would inspire a dissonance between shocked silence and an escalated sharing of astonishment.

Taking a moment, Pharaoh waited until the crowd had quieted down into an expectant hush. As the silence grew, it was as if every single body in the throne room was leaning forward to hear his command.

Finally, he nodded to Sennefer, who stepped forward at the cue. He then made an announcement to the chamber at large; you were certain he was formally introducing Pharaoh and his many titles, just how your lord uncle Virgilius would be in his own court. Following his address, the Vizier bowed and withdrew, returning to his designated spot.

The conventional proceedings of a royal court followed. From this point forward, until the court’s conclusion, all accounts of the events you witnessed and the words of those who presented themselves before Pharaoh were merely your interpretation from past experience. It was as if you were contained within this disorienting dimension of elusive words and gestures exchanged before you in total secret. They concealed nothing in their delivery though equally revealed to you nothing. Pharaoh’s clipped explanations in all their vagueness only afforded marginal clarity.

You watched him judge five former nobles who had refused to adhere to their obligations, stripping them of their titles and possessions, ruled on several outstanding legal cases regarding the redistribution of farmland, heard the letters of several vassal lords congratulating him on his upcoming wedding, and accepted several gifts from various simpering ambassadors.

If you were ever to become heavily involved in his court, you would need to learn the dialect and have a dedicated translator at your side. You peered at the face of the man you were sitting on. Did he know you would be hampered by the language barrier? He had to have, it was unthinkable otherwise. So then why did he give in to your plea? Why allow you to attend?

No, wait...he didn't simply permit you to attend, not without a heavy stipulation. His ultimatum was that you were to be present as his shadow, or not be present at all. It was possible that he'd laid out those terms on purpose to lead you into this situation, to trap you in this manner. You weren't blind to how the courtiers had reacted when you sat upon his lap.

Your thoughts ran deep, so deep you did not notice those blue eyes shift to return your gaze.

In Delphini, your lord uncle Virgilius settled all of the important matters of state in privacy, away from the public eye. During your lessons, and afterwards when you reached sixteen years, the both of you would practice some pretty speeches before acting them out in front of the courtiers. You had learned that these small bits of drama served as means to effectively communicate the intentions of the Imperial Family to the highborn and the peasantry.

Was this Pharaoh's intention when he made you his slave, to present you as his prize before the most significant figures of his court? You could recall his displeasure regarding his subjects' reluctance to acknowledge you as his future Queen. Was this a choreographed show of his power over the Holy Empire, having the chosen Bride of the Moon and symbol of fertility of Genova within his arms? A means to disprove any rumours regarding your legitimacy?

Your thoughts were quieted by the feel of his lips on your temple.

You could feel your heart fall to your stomach, spasming there wildly with conditioned anxiety.

If you had glanced out at the throngs of ministers in the audience chamber right this moment, you would have witnessed at least thirty pairs of wide open eyes. Councilman Zahur's expression was that of realization and deep hurt, that of a young man forced to watch his first love in the arms of another man. Though it was his own undoing for having coveted what was not his in the first place. High Priestess Merneith stared unblinkingly from her seat on the upper level, surrounded by her furiously whispering loyal followers, intrigued by the bloodless king’s public display of — what could only be dubbed —possessiveness.

The richly dressed man who had been in the midst of petitioning Pharaoh had come to a stumbling halt, gaping like a suffocating fish. His blatant surprise prompted Sennefer to turn and see his emperor's gaze locked on yours as if you were the only person in the entire chamber, in the entire world, who was worthy of bestowing his full attention.

But you would not witness any of these things.

After he lifted his lips from your pulsing skin, your thoughts sparked back to life with a vengeance. What was he playing at, displaying to everyone present such an intimate gesture? How dare he involve you in his self-narrated stage and play? He could think of you how he pleased but you were not an object to be handled. You did not dare blink or look away, hoping to secure a hint to his internal logic. To your dismay his eyes were cool and utterly remote; you still had yet to learn how to read the blank pages that was he, written entirely in invisible ink. He curated every twitch and stiffness of his muscles so perfectly that the rare emotion he revealed, you could not separate with any certainty from an expertly performed script.

His hand which had been wrapped securely about your waist slowly slid upwards to gently stroke the back of your head in a soothing gesture. When his mouth opened, you were expecting him to say something to you. But the words were growled menacingly in his own language; he did not lift his gaze from you, but the tyrant was addressing the petitioner who had gone into a state of silent shock. Judging by the grovelling tone of voice the man's response was couched in, you assumed Pharaoh had just threatened him while he casually stroked your head as if you were some tamed feline.

...

At long last, after the last petitioner withdrew, a man dressed in sashes of dark red and gold stepped forward, and knelt before the dais. Pharaoh noticed your curiosity and identified him as Chieftain Kafka, Ife's warlord father. His appearance caused a stir, and many heads turned to the spot where he knelt, though the stares would not be returned by him with any comparable degree of interest; grey eyes ignoring the commotion.

Sennefer stepped forward to address the chamber at large once again, and your skin prickled from the sudden change in the air. Even Pharaoh, utterly expressionless, had whetted his focus. This was it.

At the conclusion of Vizier’s announcement, it was no longer a light stir of turning feet or the silky susurrus of voices and garments. No, the court exploded; many crying out in shock or surprise, and the greater majority in anger. Sennefer held up his hand for silence, but the shouting and arguing could not be persuaded. Observing from his great throne, the all grounding mortar and pestle the disgruntled clamour had become for his thinning patience, Pharaoh motioned towards the slave holding his staff. There was a loud crash of iron upon limestone, bringing silence and all eyes to the emperor.

And by extension, you.

From the great double doors that had been pulled open, Ife was led into the audience chamber escorted by three Inquisitors. Her arms were tightly bound in front of her with the same rope coiling her upper body, before branching in four directions into the hands of the four guards shepherding her. Her linen gown was caked with sand, and a large bruise was blooming darkly on the left side of her face. Had the sentinels harmed her as they held her captive? No. The bruise had been inflicted upon her by Pharaoh, on the night she'd attacked you. You recalled how hard he'd struck her when she lunged at you.

Ife was shoved to her knees before the limestone dais. Omar had moved one step to the side, close enough to intervene should she somehow escape her bonds, but in no way obstructing your view of her. Chieftain Kafka was forcefully made to stand to the other side, and he called out to his daughter in obvious relief.

"Ife of the Desert Minnows," intoned Sennefer gravely in the common tongue. "You stand before His Majestic Personage Pharaoh Nekhtsethenes, the Lord of Two Lands, the High Priest of All Temples, the Wise Serpent, and the Voice of Heaven. You stand before him and his Heavenly Host in judgment, due to your unlawful and heinous attempted murder of his betrothed, the crown princess of the Holy Empire of Delphini!"

  
"You stand accused of the crime, witnessed by Pharaoh himself. Your actions against the throne are undeniable, and the judgment of His Majestic Personage has already been decided. Yet the mercy of the Wise Serpent is unparalleled, and in his beneficence he has given you leave to defend yourself before the eyes of gods and men before Pharaoh pronounces his judgment. Do you wish to do so?"

And then Ife blurted out something you hadn't the faintest idea was about. The entire chamber became utterly quiet and still from anticipation as she screamed at Pharaoh in pure unadulterated rage. Or was it you she was scorning so heavily; the way Pharaoh's hand clutched at you in response to her outburst could have denoted anything.

As one of the three Inquisitor escorts grabbed Ife by her hair and snarled down at her, perhaps to chastise her for her disrespect, a man stood up from his seat and walked forwards, swinging his bronze staff in the air as he addressed the court. He was perhaps around the same age as your lord uncle, and moved with stately purpose.

"High Priest Ubaid," Pharaoh gave his input unexpectedly.

So this older man was the priest who was supposedly trying to usurp Pharaoh's throne? Not that it was of any personal significance to you, though you easily identified those ministers who were sympathetic to his cause. They had been seated next to Ubaid throughout the entirety of court, and in that moment they were speaking with those closest to their positions; they gave every impression of trying to sway the opinions of their neighbours. Three sympathizers in total.

Ubaid himself had apparently mastered the kindly grandfather facade. Even as you watched him your mind had difficulty believing he was anything but a well-meaning and concerned politician. If Pharaoh hadn't mentioned him before now, if you weren't so wary of overt friendliness by principle, and had you understood what he was actually saying...you might have been fooled completely.

With years of acting before the Delphini court, you were able to discern how each hand gesture, how each sweep of his gaze over the amassed officials was perfectly executed to build his righteous image further...and to worsen Pharaoh's already bleak reputation; going by the way the courtiers were nodding their heads in agreement to his words and glancing at Pharaoh with disappointment.

You knew it was Pharaoh he was insulting due to the contemptuous manner he rolled out the word 'pharaoh' as if chanting a curse. Whether he was including you in his tirade or not was beyond you, but in your heart you suspected it to be the case. If he was trying to usurp power from Pharaoh, it was logical to assume you would become his enemy by proxy, as the emperor's betrothed.

Although...if he had the audacity to speak out like this without fear of retaliation, he must hold significant sway already. The way you saw it, Pharaoh needed to discredit him, or find grounds upon which to execute him, to prevent civil war.

A spirited rejoinder echoed throughout the throne room, interrupting High Priest Ubaid mid-speech. You were impressed by the way it carried across the hall; it was clearly heard by everyone in attendance. And then you saw who challenged Ubaid.

"Your most fervent admirer," Pharaoh sneered in your ear.

Councilman Zahur was brash and idealistic in his speech; one couldn't accuse him of lacking passion. He was admittedly good-looking in his own way, with his exotic red hair and his wide, white smile. When he made a sweeping motion with his arm, throwing his cape back, you saw at once that he had a sickle sword strapped to his waist like most of the young men you've glimpsed around the palace, but you had an inkling it was for sport, not for war. You imagined he had a gaggle of women all aflutter in his presence whenever he passed. Perhaps he was like Pharaoh, constantly showing off his body to those girls while he exercised.

And there was the matter of his burgeoning infatuation with you. You hadn't realized it until later that night when Asim pointed it out, that his agenda towards you in the palace gardens was to pursue you romantically. Unfortunately it only reminded you of how Ramsay had chased his fiancée all over Genova and made a fool of himself before she'd finally agreed to marry the pest, to shut him up once and for all.

Oh, all those sleepless nights Ramsay inflicted upon you because he insisted on practicing his poetry on you before performing before his lady. In fact it was a surprise Zahur hadn't attempted such things with you yet, his advances restricted solely to what had transpired in the gardens. Perhaps he was waiting for the perfect chance to seize you alone and regale you with more inappropriate courtly gossip?

...Could it be, his attempts were being waylaid by someone else? It did not escape your notice how Pharaoh disparaged Zahur. A small smile touched your lips at the image your mind's eye conjured, of the tyrant chasing Zahur away from you. No, no, that just wasn't likely. Pharaoh spent a majority of his days in the chambers with you as he worked, when would he find the time to spare on such an insignificant twerp?

'Insignificant' was probably an unfair descriptor. Pharaoh had mentioned a while ago that this trial was only open to those of certain titles. So in a way, you needed to remain cautious of Zahur all the same.

With that in mind you searched for any possible sympathizers to the redhead...and immediately you identified at least one: Councilman Sagi, the quiet, dark haired young man who'd shared breakfast with Sennefer and Zahur one morning several days ago, before Pharaoh had made you his betrothed. You had no clear idea what he was about, but he seemed to be the same age as Zahur. Perhaps they were classmates, or friends? You had yet to even exchange a single word with him; you would need to do some research on this pair, and the relationship between the Red and White Court councilmen in the future.

  
High Priest Ubaid's face was purple with apoplectic fury as he strode up to Zahur and jabbed a finger into the younger boy's chest. The two ministers began to shout each other down right there in the middle of the audience chamber, with Ubaid's hangers-on also rising to their feet and surrounding the wizened High Priest to form a united front. Sagi was not at all daunted by the group, coming to stand beside Zahur without prompting and easily returning the glares of Ubaid's group with unblinking green eyes.

The sound of a single loud clap startled the confrontation into a standstill. Sennefer whirled towards you and Pharaoh, executed a bow with so much flourish it was an acrobatic event, and calmly glided across the limestone floors to where the High Priest and the Red Court Councilman were standing. "Forgive me for interrupting this very stimulating debate, my friends," Sennefer said, thankfully in the common tongue. By now you were convinced he was doing this to show off his linguistic abilities. "But I'm afraid only His Majestic Personage may pronounce judgment upon Chieftain Kafka's daughter. While it is true Pharaoh called for this trial, as an acknowledgment of the Desert Minnows' long years of service to the god Horus and all of his descendants, it does not change what His Majestic Personage had witnessed."

Pharaoh refrained from identifying him, but there was no need. You were already becoming acquainted with the Vizier, Pharaoh's right hand in the governing of the Black Lands. Sennefer was indeed very useful to have in court; already he was swaying the general opinion of the officials back in Pharaoh's favor once again, and within a minute he had knocked down both Ubaid and Zahur from their pedestals and cooled their tempers.

When Pharaoh had begun spending most of his time in his royal apartment together with you, you were surprised how efficiently he could run the kingdom despite staying away from court and the public eye for days on end. This was partly because of his ability as a ruler, but also because the Vizier was just as hard working and skilled. He was also one of the only people you knew who did not cower completely before Pharaoh, and steadfastly weathered through the tyrant's unaccommodating attitude for the sake of the empire.

If only you could trust him; he was the hardest to read besides Pharaoh himself, his agenda well hidden from your detection. Now that you viewed them together in the same room, you were quite certain he was not working in concert with Ubaid. Perhaps they had similar plots, but different goals? If Ubaid truly intended to remove Pharaoh from power, then Sennefer was actually trying to strengthen Pharaoh's position. And both of these men needed Ife to further their future plans. Exactly what was Sennefer lusting for? Glory? Riches? Whatever it was, he needed Pharaoh to stay in power to succeed in his endeavours.

"Perhaps it might prove prudent, to let the maiden prove her claims of loyalty," came a woman's sultry voice from somewhere high above the throne room. To your surprise, she was speaking in the common tongue as well. But when you looked up and saw who it was, you had an epiphany.

High Priestess Merneith was Sennefer's sister, and another person you knew who could approach Pharaoh in spite of his terrorizing. It all made sense. Merneith was planning to become Pharaoh's wife, and Sennefer was assisting his sister by using Ife, the daughter of a popular warlord, to discredit you and bolster Merneith's reputation. The High Priestess' presence here today was the proof that your analysis was correct.

Well, she could have the brute, you thought bitterly. She obviously had known Pharaoh for a long time, and she had to be around the same age. With such an alluring woman attending his court, it was obvious they had some sort of relationship. Why ever he chose to bind himself to you when he already had such a stunning woman for his pleasure, you didn't know and you didn't care to know!

Though upon reconsideration, you did have an idea what Pharaoh was thinking. Your father, Valerian himself had two wives, the first one was a marriage of convenience, to tie a rich heiress to his throne. His second wife, your stepmother, had been his mistress for many years, and was not fit to be the 'chief wife'. Just the idea caused your blood to boil. Was that what he was planning? To have you, the crown princess of a rival empire for show while spending time in private with Merneith? The nerve.

By now that hussy had descended a nearby staircase with loyal followers of her own flanking her, two younger girls who kept their adoring gaze upon their mistress. Her gown wasn't sheer this time, but so much of her skin was on display that there was very little left to the imagination. To your ire, her hair was as gorgeous and well kept as it was before, and each step caused it to shimmer and undulate like ocean waves at night. How was it doing that? Gods, it was so very difficult to not react.

"What harm might it do, sire? Justice flows from the immortal sun god Amun-Ra, Your Majesty. As do all things."

All the courtiers were quiet, riveted by her. Zahur and Ubaid had completely forgotten their disagreement, and Sennefer was at total ease.

The answering roar startled you. "Amun-Ra is the master of the divine realm, and I of this realm. Do you mean to test my patience?" From what you could tell, Pharaoh was already losing his patience. It was as if Merneith's suggestion had been a grave insult to his honour. Why was he so angry, you wondered. Were you wrong in assuming the two were working in concert with each other?

"Have my previous suggestions not born fruit? Let this woman prove her loyalty is what she claims. Let her prove herself true." The gathered officials began to murmur in agreement. The priestess boldly stepped towards the kneeling Ife, and the Inquisitors were hesitant. None of them seemed willing to prevent her approach. And you could not hold it against them; she was pulling the full force of her charisma to the fore, using it as her sword and her shield. If this was her bid to become Queen, not many would be able to resist her power. The shape and strength of her words and her voice was truly compelling.

Ife was staring at Merneith as if she were a miracle in human form. Never before had you beheld such reverence in the handmaiden's face; you only saw her frowns and her glares. Ife reached out with her bound wrists towards the priestess in desperation, a cry leaving her lips. Merneith reached out with her own hand...

And then Omar stepped in between the two women, an unyielding barrier of pure muscle, snatching Merneith's dainty wrist in his larger hand. With a sharp glance over his shoulder, the four Inquisitors snapped to attention and surrounded their prisoner at once. Ife wailed with despair.

"Let Ife give herself to the flames," Merneith continued without missing a beat, pulling her hand back. "Let a great pyre be made, and let her be affixed within it. If she is true, then Amun-Ra will shelter her from his flames. If she is not... then she will burn, and justice will have been decided. Would that satisfy you, Your Majestic Personage?"

Horror settled in the pit of your belly as the words of the priestess sunk in at last. Burning Ife at the stake to test her innocence? Was the priestess raving mad? There were no gods, no miracles, only the machinations of men. What was she trying achieve, leaving Ife's fate in the hands of a deity that none could prove the existence of, playing with fire in the literal sense? At that you couldn't help but wonder if being mutilated was the lesser of the two evils.

But then you recalled how brutally Charmles had been reduced to pieces, and the implication that the Ashenvale prince's bannermen and the women he'd entertained with met their ends in the same way, and you shuddered. No, you thought fiercely. Whether it was by fire or by mutilation both sentences were equally abhorrent. You couldn't condone either outcome. You must stop Merneith from having her way. You must! Even if it meant breaking the vow of silence you had taken as Pharaoh's temporary slave.

Inspiration suddenly struck you as you thought of this. Now you had an answer for the emperor, you were sure of it.

And then Pharaoh roared in the native tongue at the frenzied officials, bringing the large hall to a chilling standstill. The quiet was so intense, it was almost physically painful. None dared to even breathe, lest they garner the attention of the Tyrant of the Black Lands. The shout was so sudden, it had been sheer willpower that kept you from acting upon your instinctive urge to cringe away; you had nearly forgotten what you had planned to convey. In this ringing silence you mustered the scattered dregs of your courage and leaned up to whisper directly in his ear. "Pharaoh, I have my alternative solution."

He gave no indication of having heard your plea. His eyes darted towards Sennefer, Ubaid and Zahur as they gathered at the foot of the dais along with their supporters, tracking each step as if a great predator on the hunt. On the sidelines Chieftain Kafka had renewed his struggle against his captors in an effort to reach for his daughter. The sentinels posted on and around the golden throne tightened their formation; their stances loose and alert. Ife kept her eyes focused on Merneith, and the High Priestess turned to face Pharaoh directly.

What was with this sudden increase in hostility, you wondered bleakly. If only you comprehended the language, then you would have had a better idea how to proceed. All you understood from this situation was that Pharaoh had said something to assert his authority, and in a way that had to have offended and frightened his subjects in equal measure, and caused his major political enemies to present what could be considered a united front.

Despite feeling as if a bull with its horns cut off, fatigue compromising further your delicate condition, you pushed on. There was no time for detailed explanations; you said it as plainly as you could. This was your only chance to convey your message clearly. "My suggestion Pharaoh is to ask the gods for guidance on how to proceed with Ife's ultimate fate."

You had no illusions. You knew he would have Ife be executed, no matter what may stand in his way. But in this manner, Ife's father would not hold it against Pharaoh for whatever her sentence would be. Not completely. He would be contending with Pharaoh and the gods, and this was more than any one person in this throne room could handle at this junction.

High Priest Ubaid suddenly said something. The tone was still polite and grandfatherly, but dripping with veiled irritation. Zahur immediately snapped back with some sort of rejoinder, and it looked as if they were about to have another argument, right there at the bottom of the dais. Pharaoh ignored them and pressed his lips to your ear. “This will cost you.”

A chill ran down your spine. What...what did he mean by that?

His hand reached up to stroke your hair once again. "You’re looking rather pale, my betrothed," he said. "It concerns me that you've spent so long in the company of these miserable leeches and their impertinent gazes. The physician advised me to protect you from anything that would worsen your condition. Shall I chastise them?" His silken voice was just loud enough to be overheard by the courtiers standing the closest to the throne. They flinched at the indirect threat.

Was this still a part of his choreographed play, you wondered. "I am not bothered in the least by their stares, Your Majestic Personage."

His hand rested upon your shoulder and pulled you more tightly against him, encouraging you to recline against his front. You were indeed tired from sitting so stiffly in his lap since the afternoon, and by this point your head felt as if it would roll off your neck, so you obliged him without much resistance.

Pharaoh paused for several heartbeats longer, inflicting his emotionless stare upon all of his courtiers before he addressed them all at long last, his voice as quelling as his regard, echoing to the furthest corners of the audience chamber. As he spoke, you rested your tired chin on his shoulder whilst keeping an ear focused on the proceedings, and you momentarily focused your eyes on the mesmerizing scenery which the missing wall behind the throne afforded you. The sky was already a deep crimson fading to soft velvet, signalling the approach of the night. If you stared with enough discipline, you thought you would see the first twinkling stars breaking twilight.

As Pharaoh's pronouncement went on, Ife released a wail which seemed to have come from the bottom of her heart, and her father abruptly ceased his struggles to gape at the tyrant as if he'd been struck by some sort of spell. Then came the mutters of confusion and disbelief from the courtiers, slowly burbling over, much like the sacred river the Khemetians worshipped. You took these reactions to mean Pharaoh had acquiesced with your suggestion, and was announcing his intent to make contact with the gods instead of executing Ife as he originally meant to.

But what of the opposition? You stole a quick glance at the major players, all whom had conveniently gathered together in a single area.

They were wary. And they were looking straight at you.

Zahur's eyes bulged out of their sockets. His companion, Sagi, was keeping a steadying hand upon the redhead's shoulder. His emerald gaze shifted from you to Pharaoh, then back to you. Ubaid's stare reminded you of the undercurrents beneath the ocean waves, those treacherous undercurrents you had to avoid lest they swept you away while diving for ingredients.

For the first time since meeting her you witnessed Merneith's beautiful face slightly pinched with annoyance. It made your heart dance with glee before you squashed it; this was an important trial that decided the fate of a mortal woman, not a petty competition for His Majesty's attention. As for the priestess' brother Sennefer, once again his remote expression was second only to Pharaoh's cold countenance, with not a hint of his true thoughts visible to the naked eye. But he was watching you just as intently as the rest of the small troop gathered at the foot of the dais, and this was enough evidence for you to tread carefully around him from now on.

You had been granted His Majesty’s listening ear; a threat to anyone who did not line up behind you.

...

The young emperor hadn't said a word to you afterwards regarding the outcome of Ife's trial, but you felt as if you'd done so much irreparable damage with a single request. It was an odd and unwelcome feeling. You had achieved what you'd desired, even with Merneith's sudden 'intervention'. Hadn't you?

Pharaoh had said it himself. He could not afford to appear weak in front of his subjects, especially in front of those men who wished to dethrone him. If Pharaoh was not permitted to compromise with mortals, then he should treat with the gods instead. No matter how many times you analyzed the current situation, you assured yourself of your victory. Ife would be spared a terrible end. Pharaoh's reputation and honor was preserved. This was the optimal path.

As you'd suspected, none had vocalized anything negative in response to your very obvious involvement with the sentencing. You were certain you were correct in the assumption that, although you had no right to voice your thoughts to the court, there was nothing stopping you from speaking directly to the king you'd been made a shadow of. You also had an inkling that you had made a powerful enemy out of High Priest Ubaid for your actions in court, and possibly Sennefer and his sister Merneith as well.

Omar led you back to the royal apartments on orders of Pharaoh. According to the Chief Inquisitor, due to your current station you were not allowed to accompany His Majesty and the ministers to the temple where contact with Horus and Amun-Ra and all the other gods would take place. That didn't suit you, in all frankness you didn't want to miss even a single moment, but Pharaoh had yet to free you from your chains as his slave. It made you grind your teeth, but you had no choice to obey, and the ominous feelings persisted throughout the rest of the night, permeating your every thought, even as you played with your little toy birds.

So much wrong could happen away from your vigilance, and you spent most of the night lying in the bed whilst contemplating the worst scenarios.

You were so deep in your worries, you did not sense his presence until he had pressed himself against your back, his arms encircling you.

"Waiting for me?" He spoke directly in your ear, and you squealed in denial. "The trial is long over, and I've finished communing with the gods. Tomorrow, this farce comes to an end."

You briefly thought of turning around in his arms to face him, but you convinced yourself that trying to read his expression would be a waste of effort. Instead, you prepared yourself for the worst before asking the most important question. "What will become of Ife?"

"She is to be executed for her treason, but the gods have allowed her to choose her own fate."

Unbridled exhilaration spilt over your features. “Oh your Majesty, what good news,” you declared in raptures, turning. With mindless habit, you reached for his hand, bringing the back of his palm against your lips. “This is wonderful, just wonderful. Thank you!”

Pharaoh would offer a half smile, if the ambiguous curl of his lip could be passed for such an expression, as he watched you as if an entirely foreign language to be studied, and learnt from the first character.

But in the midst of your elation, you forgot to ask another important question.

What did Ife choose?

…

Roused to the soft rise and fall of a warm chest, you glanced up, in search of the answer to what had awoken you when everything slept.

You discovered the universe. On a clear night, when the stars bejewelling the desert skies as if diamond studs pressed into the canvas with a gentle finger, threatening with each turn of the heavens to fall, in a contest with his eyes, the former miracle would seem unspectacular. Looking up, you would have almost mistook his eyes for the midnight sky, had his eyes been a hundred times, no a thousand times duller. Eyes so blue, you drowned, and in your intoxication you relished. Certainly this was the sleep deprived delirium speaking, but you had no mind to fight for the reins.

He could have your sanity.

Running a delicate thumb over his generous lips, lightly chapped; you encouraged the shiver which animated your sleepy limbs at the thought of them tracing the naked contours of your form. Sinful, but oh so welcome.

Doe eyes flickering against his coming to life at the sight of you, you called his name in a dulcet tone.

“Say my name again,” he demanded of you in a frisson inspiring husk. Raising his hand to yours he pressed his lips to your thumb with fervour and a certain reverence.

“Seto...”

He was greedy to hear you call it again and again, and had you been a mystique who could read his fantasies, at least in that isolated moment, you would have possessed no qualms in complying.

You wondered if it would be a name you would call for the rest of your life. Could you bring yourself to honour, obey and serve faithfully this man they cursed as bloodless until the day you gave him your last breath? And more than any formality, could you love him; could this love bear him children?

“Seto,” you whispered on your own volition.

“Yes,” he returned your whisper, breathing your name, encouraging you to share with him your thoughts.

Smothering your soft breasts against his arm, you craned your neck to press an ardent kiss against his cheek. Your only explanation to his quizzical gaze was an innocent smile as you laid back down beside him, which unbeknownst to you sparked wild arousal between his hips.

“Perhaps,” you said, caressing his smooth cheek with dainty fingers, appraising him as if he were an exotic butterfly, “perhaps my opinions of you were prematurely formed. They do you no justice.”

At those words the young emperor restrained, disposing himself to suppressing the violent urges and endure the torment you prescribed. If in you there was budding willingness to accept him then he wished to allow those sentiments a fighting chance.

He returned a tender kiss, as wholesome as he could manage, marking your cheek. A mirthful laugh burbled from your bow-like lips and he found himself helplessly drawn to their suppleness. You indulged him, sucking delicately on his lower lip, hoping to inflict upon him the heart-stopping thrill coursing your veins.

You writhed against him, the linens between you a nuisance, but he had vowed to nurture your loyalty.

His lips strayed, maddening you with his restraint as his lingering butterfly kisses, from your jaw to the curve of your shoulder would only tease at the pleasure he could give, before ordering you to sleep.

...

The next morning saw Pharaoh Nekhtsethenes bedecked in his full court regalia once again, with just as much gold and dramatic flair as yesterday but with a slight variation in the design of his collar, such as the arrangement of the sapphire stones.

He scrutinized you just as closely in return, more languorously. "You're early."

Outside the arched window, the sun was yet to fully rise, and there was a clear lack of birdsong.

"But of course, Your Majesty. I will be accompanying you to the execution," you offered in explanation. You were determined to see this through to the end no matter what so you had forced yourself to rouse earlier than you were used to. To your dismay, he had long finished preparing for his next official appearance.

"You are not permitted to attend."

"Do you intend to keep me away until the very end?"

He was silent.

"Pharaoh!" You said accusingly. "I ceased to be your slave last night, have I not? Ife was my handmaiden for however short a time, and thus I am invested in seeing her leave this world myself."

He was as responsive as a stone statue.

Incensed, you strode barefoot across the floor towards him without a single fleeting thought for how you were still dressed in your night gown, ready to press your agenda. But then he suddenly came alive as you approached, his arms imprisoning you and his mouth capturing yours without warning; as if you were a fawn and you'd stumbled into a hunting trap.

When your mind recovered from the fog of pleasure he had ambushed you with, he was already in the process of coaxing you back up the steps leading to the bed, his hand on your waist to guide you in your feverish state.

"Lean over the edge of the bed," came the wicked whisper.

"Your Majesty, what..."

"Do it."

A whimper escaped you at his tone. His hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, urging you. You complied, anchoring yourself to the edge by placing your palms flat upon the linen covering. The hand on your back pressed you down until he deemed you were bowed low enough. Distantly, you were aware of him moving to stand directly behind you. You couldn't help but try to glance over your shoulder.

A hard shudder raced through you as his large hands began to trace your curves, wasting no time in cupping your breasts through the material of your night gown. You nearly fell sideways at the feel of his fingers kneading them, the pads of his index coaxing your nipples to attention under his ministrations. Knees weak, you scrambled to stay upright, clawing at the bed.

Never in your wildest imagination had you dreamt you would end up this way, at the tender mercy of the ruler of the Kingdom of the Sun. There was something inherently animalistic about the way you were displayed before him in this moment, how you were nearly bare and he was fully dressed in all of his finery.

"Spread your legs," he said in a dark voice. His long fingers were unrelenting. Unlike previous affairs, this time there was not a single trace of amusement or smugness. His ragged breaths echoed yours. "Spread them!" He demanded harshly. His entire demeanour was purposeful, there was no room for play, every nerve ending desired to be released from the pain you inflicted upon him. Release that only you could provide him.

You would only cry out with delirium. Your body refused to obey his instructions, the joints locked from the tumultuous sensations he was forcing you to feel. With an impatient growl, his foot wedged between yours and shoved them apart. One arm lowered away from your breasts and wrapped around your waist to help you stay steady.

And then you felt his other arm release your swollen breasts from their torment at last, only slide down to your hips to tug the hem of your short nightgown upwards, exposing your bare buttocks completely.

The incoherent shrieks bursting from your lips only grew in volume as his hand cupped your sensitive derrière greedily. Memorizing your shape, worshipping your softness. Staying upright became a trial of endurance that you were slowly losing. If he did not have his other arm supporting you, surely you would have collapsed to the floor.

"My king," you moaned again and again. In your last act of defiance you tried to jerk your hips away from that sinful touch, but the same muscled arm which kept you balanced also held you securely in place; there was no escaping the tyrant. Driven to a fit of madness by his presence, his scent, and the way he dominated you, something deep within you broke free. Sin be damned. Your arms gave out at last, and you collapsed onto the linen bedding. Every part of you was begging for him. If he denied you, you felt you would die.

And then a sharp knock rapped on the bed chamber doors. It was so jarring and loud, it shocked you out of your undone state. For a long moment neither of you moved. The knocking continued, insistent. With a violent oath, Pharaoh helped get your still trembling form situated on the bed before whirling around and heading for the doors, adjusting the deep blue sash around his hips. Your chest rose and fell with heavy breaths as you watched him storm away with hooded eyes.

The double doors were thrown open, revealing Omar. There was a fleeting hint of surprise on his face before it faded into his usual unyielding passivity as he stood firmly before Pharaoh and withstood his king's wrath. There was a hushed and rapid exchange of words. Pharaoh glanced at you for a brief moment and then stalked outside after his Chief Inquisitor.

...

"Understood, sire." Omar acknowledged Pharaoh's command with his fist held over his heart; the official salute practiced by the Blue Militia. "I swear to protect your betrothed and your unborn child with all of my ability."

The divine son of Ra glared at him. "I never made such an announcement. Who told you she was with child?"

"Twas the Vizier who informed me, Your Majesty. He summoned me to his office and suggested that I form a squad dedicated to protecting the princess, and the new life she carried within her."

"When?"

Omar considered this for several heart beats. "Not long after you brought the crown princess to your personal chambers, Your Majesty."

"What of your men?"

"I told them we were to pay more attention to guarding your betrothed, as her current condition was especially delicate. The men heard the rumours of the child, and formed their own conclusions."

"See to it that the rumour remains as such. There will be no official announcements made without my leave." Pharaoh Nekhtsethenes swiftly turned away and resumed his walk to the grand double doors. Omar stayed put and saluted him once again, accepting the silent dismissal.

Truth to be told, the Chief Inquisitor did not believe that the Bride of the Moon was with child. His brother's wife had given him a son two years ago, and they were looking forwards to having a daughter next season. Omar had been by their side all that time, and the princess was displaying no signs of an expecting mother...nor that of a woman who has learned the sacred joy of joining with a man.

There was also the matter of His Majesty, a sovereign who revealed nothing of his true emotions besides his arrogance and fury, a conqueror of men who took whatever he coveted without reservation. These days Omar witnessed His Majesty openly stare at his foreign bride like a starving man lingering outside the baker's place. He was akin to a rope being pulled taut as each day passed, the fibres restraining his lust unraveling. But more surprising than this display was His Majesty's self imposed restraint. Was it some form of courtship to appease the princess, and for how much longer would Pharaoh humour his young bride before taking the reins of the situation into his own hands?

...

Carefully you pried open the door leading into Pharaoh's private office and peeked out. It was just as you feared; Omar and two of his men were posted right in front of the apartment doors. They were quite professional in their vigil; despite the group of beautiful gossiping women in front of them; Nepthys was tossing her golden tresses alluringly whilst batting her eyelashes at Omar, and Mirina was attempting to share a tray of baked goods with all three of them.

Even in the desert climate, they wore those heavy white cloaks and stoically ignored the sweltering heat. They did not even converse with one another; whenever Omar gave them a command, he gestured with some sort of finger code. So unlike the honour guardsmen of the Holy Empire, who whispered amongst each other incessantly. Captain Rhaegar Darnassus had been the sole exception.

But this was not the time to be impressed by how well trained the sentinels were. Going by what you've just seen, it wasn't farfetched to suspect Pharaoh of having his men keep you away from Ife's execution. He was nothing if not consistent. You didn't dare think for a second those guards would let you pass, even if you tried to order them to. There was no path available to you besides one: you needed to sneak away.

You opened the door slightly wider, hiding behind the heavy wood. Asim was the first to notice you and she rose to her feet at once. After a brief discussion with the other four women, Irene and the handmaiden with the whispery voice stood as well.

"Milady, are you well?" Irene was wringing her hands anxiously. You knew what she truly wanted to inquire after, especially after what she'd witnessed yesterday morning, and you were quick to reassure her.

"Pharaoh has instructed all five of us to attend you today, to keep you company." Asim arched a well-formed eyebrow at the two remaining handmaidens who were still trying to coax the sentinels into returning their attentions. The eldest handmaiden exhaled with resignation and dismay. "...Please excuse their unruly behaviour, princess. They are merely excited that we have been allowed together as a group once again."

Something felt off about this. All five of them? Including Ife, who was not present for obvious reasons, there was Irene and Asim. Mirina and Nepthys. And...

"Remind me again what your name is?" You requested of the sixth handmaiden.

She stepped forwards politely. "I am called Lapis, Your Highness."

"And what's wrong with your voice?" You pressed, annoyed that you needed to strain yourself just to hear her. "If you are ill, please report to the physician and focus on recovering your health first. I can't have one of my handmaidens performing her duties in such a state."

"Please allow me to explain, Your Highness," Asim said. "I have known Lapis since she was a girl, and a terrible disease had ravaged her body until she grew out of childhood."

"Nobody will take her," you guessed.

Asim nodded. "Her constitution is not as hardy as other maidens, but she works just as diligently as them. Yet none would see past her condition to see her unwavering resolve. Not even Pharaoh looks upon her favourably." You doubted he looked upon anyone with favour. "If you spurn Lapis...she will have nowhere else to go. I shall take full responsibility for whatever shortcomings she has. Please, I beg of you, do not turn her away."

You saw Irene frowning. Indeed, it was not the Delphini way to employ frail servants. It was not proper, and it more oft than not led to accidents that could have been avoided. But if Asim vouched for Lapis' capabilities, you would let this lie. For now.

"I will need to speak with you more about this later," you said sternly. "But this is besides my point. Was I mistaken, or did you recently reduce your numbers from seven maids to six?"

The three women exchanged furtive glances with each other. In the end Irene addressed you. "The seventh handmaiden has failed to report to me or to Asim for several days. Ever since you were brought to Pharaoh's chambers, milady, she has not been seen or heard from since."

"It is nothing to worry about, Your Highness," Asim was quick to intervene. "I am already searching for a suitable replacement. This won't happen again."

"If you have it well in hand, I won't push the issue further," you said uncertainly before straightening. "Now that that's settled, I wish to inform you that I am still fatigued from my attendance in court yesterday, so I will be asleep for a while longer. Please do not call for me, or anything of the sort. I wish to remain undisturbed until I am fully rested."

After relaying these instructions and making absolutely sure Omar and his men were aware of them as well, you shut the door and returned to the bed. Instead of lying in it however, you arranged the pillows in a way that emulated a reclining body, and threw the thin blanket over it. Now anyone who tried to peek through the doors would see your ruse and assume it was you, hidden underneath the cover, fast asleep. You weren't expecting this to deceive your maidens or the sentinels for very long, but you needed to buy as much time as possible regardless.

Next you put on your sandals, entered Pharaoh's private armoury, grabbed the least attention-grabbing riding cloak from a pile of laundry, and headed towards the spot on the wall where the entrance to the underground passageways were. You ignored the way the cloak smelled of him as you draped it over your night gown, the ends dragging across the floor.

Working quickly and carefully you opened the secret entrance and lit the torch, then walked as fast as you could down the carved stone steps and down the paths you'd faithfully memorized on that day Pharaoh had first shown them to you. You were heading towards Pharaoh's private training grounds. It was the best vantage point from which you could find out where Ife's execution was being held. You remembered how elevated it was, and how the cultivated pine grew thickly. You could hide in the shade of the trees whilst you engaged in your search.

...

You reached those training grounds in only a handful of minutes. It had seemed to take much longer the first time around.

It occurred to you then, the lack of fallen pine needles on the forest floor. It was as if a great wind had blown all the dead leaves away, leaving behind the tightly packed earth in its wake as if picked clean.

Immediately the faint scent of smoke assaulted your senses. Was there a fire? You put out the torch's flames in a nearby water pot to be certain, and sure enough you could still smell it. You shielded your eyes and glanced upwards; you gasped at the sight of the small column of smoke rising into the heavens. A terrible feeling stole over you then, your inner voice telling you to follow the smoke and see the cause with your own eyes.

...

There was no need to go very far. Further past the thickly growing pine grove was a stone watchtower. Sandals scraping on the ground as you hurried through the arched entrance, your mind briefly noted the straw targets stored neatly along one wall, the same type as the one Pharaoh had used for his blind knife-throwing. He had mentioned it before, hadn't he? He was supposed to undergo chariot training that time...this watchtower must have been used by his spotter in order to take records on his performance from a bird's eye view. If you had time to look around, you were certain you would find that monstrous bronze mace and those throwing daggers.

Instead, you pounded up the winding mud brick stairs, grasping the ends of the flapping cloak in your hands to free your legs.

Reaching the very top, you allowed yourself a moment to catch your breath; the suffocating scent of the smoke was more pungent here. The wind blew the ashes scattering into the air across the river in a flurry. It wrapped you like a thick grey scarf. Black ashes fell like snow from the firmament, the sky itself burning an ominous charcoal.

Following the fog burning the back of your throat, you saw it immediately.

Looming on the other side of the Nile was a magnificent altar made of sandstone, flanked by two towering obelisks that were polished so thoroughly they shimmered in the escaping sunlight.

Upon the altar were several beds of thorns with bundles of dead leaves and twigs piled on top. They were carefully arranged around a small pillar of rock. And they were aflame.

Tied to the pillar, Ife awaited her fate. The distance obscured her face, and you could find no defined expression to read, but against her bindings she was calm, and dare you say relaxed. She called for no one. Not even as the tongues of fire crept ever closer to where she was being held. Even as her breaths grew numbered, she was steadfast in her belief of your treachery against an empire of the most acute degree. It was chilling.

Standing tall at the foot of the altar you saw Pharaoh Nekhtsethenes addressing the crowds which had gathered. The extravagant gold ornaments he wore appeared to harvest the foreboding rays of the sun stealing through, setting him apart of the crowd, and you watched on with increasing horror at this barbaric celebration.

As Pharaoh swung his sceptre to point it at Ife, the flames drew closer still. The incoherent cheering of the crowds combined as one, reaching a fever pitch and reverberating over the roar of the mighty river. It was the sound of a people lusting after another human’s blood, once one of their own.

These were a nation of lunatics, you grew certain. Bloodthirsty, power starved, depraved savages with their minds scorched under the desert sun, and their morals ravaged by propaganda. Becoming such a people’s queen would be nothing short of a hellish fate.

…

In the end, Ife burned and burned well.

For the merest second as the fires began to lick her she had kept silent, her eyes closed and her mouth clenched shut. For the merest second, it seemed that perhaps the fires would not burn her.

And then she started screaming. Started, and seemingly would not end, until the fires crept up her body well and far enough to consume her whole.

You could not find it within yourself to witness it. You looked away.

Yet her blood curdling wails as the life was burnt out of her, inch by charring inch, they would be imprinted into your memory and they would repeat in your mind ceaselessly; your first life.

Gods did not exist, for if they had, it would be you burning where you stood. Ife had not accused you of anything that you were not.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trial Dress & Hair: https://pin.it/wjmwab37knzw5y
> 
> Seto’s outfit inspiration. This was based loosely on these diagrams, but some changes were made: https://pin.it/dyccfsr5c5xak3. Headress is more like this minus the feathers: https://pin.it/n6sv4pgiqjwwxn
> 
> Let us know what you think. Also tell us what you think of this mammoth chapter size and if that’s something you’re into...or not. :)


	9. Shadows of Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Est: Another huge chapter! And once again a faint lemony scent. Plus relationship development stuff happens.
> 
> Edit: Est up there says faint lemony scent. Borrowing from him, I say a chapter borrowed straight out of some prequel to the Kama Sutra, prepare yourselves. No really.
> 
> Edit2: Wanderlust! You ninja stealth-editor, you!

 

Head falling up, the golden sunshine which stole through the smoke and pierced the canopy to shatter into a myriad of green and gold triangles gave the illusion of gilded pine needles. Your mind circled to find the man you had fallen asleep to, and the one you had woken up to, eyes bound, and then again wide open and blue. It was difficult to believe the affections which had kindled for him. He seemed a distant dream, and you couldn’t find him.

 

“Praise be to the Infinitely Merciful Pale God, Cynthios the Lightsworn. You alone do I revere. Please, spare me my heart. Let it not turn as black as all those around me...”

 

Those words you chanted aloud to yourself in absent habit, they served no purpose besides centring your own thoughts. It was an affirmation of disobedience, a silent battle cry of rebellion. It was the rejection of all that you had come to know in this place.

 

It was unfathomable how it was the darkest in The Kingdom of the Sun.

 

As you rapidly descended the mud brick steps of the watchtower and returned to the underground passage, you began to pray in earnest. Not out of devotion or piousness to the moon god Cynthios, but as a measure of defiance. A measure by which to rally against the bleak existence you had been forced to adopt.

 

The methods of worship for the moon god were unique, in that praying was a more active endeavour than the other Lightsworns in the isles around Genova. In all of your lessons of the different faiths, none had ever had the complexity of the Bride's Prayer. Standing up, bowing down, kneeling. All ordered, all in a manner that took a generally unchanging amount of time. You have lost count a long time ago of how many times you had prayed to Cynthios in this manner, and your mind would idly count off the seconds and minutes it would take before you had finished for the day. It had always been mechanical, following only the motions.

 

You did not have the sacred spring water, the Tears of the Moon, with which to cleanse your body of sin. But you had the Bride's Prayer, and through this prayer you would have power over your fears. And you would escape this place.

 

“Please, spare me my heart. Let it not turn as black as all those around me...”

...

 

But suddenly, it no longer mattered. As if to cruelly strip away the power you had built within your own little world, upon returning to His Majesty's chambers you discovered that not a single soul remained. Not even your handmaidens were present; none would answer your tentative calls. The bed covers had been ripped back, revealing the truth behind the pillow ruse. You could see the sentinels in your mind now, out and about the royal palace in full force, devastating the courtyards and corridors for any sign of you. Pharaoh must have been informed of your disappearance as well. There was no hope of escaping this damned nation of savages today.

 

Pharaoh Nekhtsethenes himself was surely searching for you right this moment. He must be convinced you had attempted to escaped him once again. And if you succeeded in convincing him otherwise? You could not imagine what he would do to you, should he find out the reason for your sudden vanishing act; that you’d defied his wishes and witnessed Ife’s execution in spite of them.

 

Reparations would need to be made, steep reparations. You realized this with dread. The tyrant would need to be appeased, his anger lulled before you could hope to escape. At the height of his ire, he would be alert, and one couldn’t hope to escape a mistrustful king wounded by the misgivings of betrayal as much as one could not hope to leave the den of a provoked lion.

 

How would you be able to stand it for a moment longer, being at the mercy of that murderer?...And by that the most frightening still, could you trust the whimsy of your sentiments to not be swayed by the cruel emperor’s deceitful beauty; in his arms, would your convictions melt and seep like floodwater in a parched desert?

 

...

 

Pharaoh Nekhtsethenes rested his fists on the map table, breathing heavily to suppress the flood of rage that was pounding in his ears. "One hour," he said in a harsh whisper. There was no other sound in the war room. Around him stood Omar and several members of the Blue Militia in their leather armour and white hooded cloaks, swords at their belts and axes at their backs. They had been prepared to report on the locations that had already been thoroughly searched, patrol lines in and around Sepfuruna that were still on high alert for the tiny princess. But once the words left Omar's lips, any chance of assuaging the divine son of Ra had been shattered.

 

"She has been missing for one full hour!" Pharaoh roared, slamming his fist into the wood. The men standing closest to him could swear they heard the table itself splinter and crack beneath the punishment dealt by His Majesty's hand.

 

For a moment after his outburst, His Majesty remained quiet, and the Inquisitors tensed in anticipation at the haranguing that was sure to follow. They were not to be disappointed.

 

"One full hour you have searched for the crown princess, without any success," Pharaoh said lowly, his eyes fixed on the large map in front of him, with small metal and wood objects representing forces of men, patrols, messengers. "This outrage, I expected from the Royal Army. Tens and hundreds of soldiers, rousted from their beds with no notice. They had to gather their armour, horses, clothing, food, spare weapons and all they need for a march, then they actually had to form up into something resembling a column to start marching - after, of course, they decided amongst themselves the proper order of the march, with all due concern for rank, reputation and the colour of their banners.

 

"I expected such, because they are all loathsome animals who think being allowed to enter the list is evidence that the gods smile on them in all things. I do not expect such from my supposedly trained, organized, prepared Inquisitors! What can you pitiful insects accomplish if you cannot find one woman, let alone keep watch over her movements?"

 

Omar bravely stepped forward even as his men recoiled, clearing his throat. "Your Majesty. I take full responsibility," he said in a calm and even tone...and received a punch aimed squarely at his firmly set jaw, courtesy of His Majesty. Two of his men caught him as he staggered from the sudden blow, keeping him erect.

 

Pharaoh cracked his knuckles and turned away. "I will be joining the search, seeing how you pitiful insects are unable to perform the simplest of tasks without my direct guidance. Inform the Vizier that I will be leaving all matters of court in his hands until tomorrow evening, and strike the princess' disappearance from all records in whatever methods you need to employ. It doesn't matter to me, personally. What matters right now, is finding my betrothed before darkness falls. What matters, is finding her without further incident. Is that not possible?" He all but growled. "Or must I make it possible?"

 

All the men present cried out as one, saluting Pharaoh as Omar stated their intentions to find you safe and unharmed, no matter the cost.

 

“Where is Nepthys?” Pharaoh demanded as Omar departed, and just as he spoke the golden haired handmaiden rushed in, hiking up the hem of her dress which had been tiresomely ensnaring her ankles as she moved; her lovely face drenched with sweat.

 

“I am here, Your Majesty, and may I say I am as shocked as you are about this shameful — ”

 

“I should hope you aren't as shocked as I am,” Pharaoh thundered, glaring at the trembling foreign woman. “Your mistress vanishes and you're not the first to tell me about it?”

 

“If you recall, Your Majesty, we did have a discussion regarding her willingness to stay in our fair capital city not so long ago,” countered Nepthys, backpedaling as fast as she could.

 

“A discussion where you claimed you'd tell me if anything more happened. What use are you to me if you cannot keep watch over the crown princess as you should, you miserable wretch!”

 

“Many birds sing me many songs, but even a spider can be surprised,” she defended herself, her voice choked with absolute terror.

 

Even as she said those words, the Ruler of Two Lands closed the distance with the trembling woman. She almost froze in place as he did so, unmoving as he cupped her chin in his hand and shifted her head forward enough to hear his whispers.

 

"Within the cells of Blackstone Tower is a criminal  the Blue Militia has captured several weeks ago. He is...ill mannered, as most criminals are. For months he stalked the small villages, taking a number of peasant girls, and chased them around the marshes with a pack of hunting dogs. He would do it until the poor girls became tired, and then he would set the dogs upon them. Sometimes the dogs would tear the girls limb from limb and feast, and other times...well, the Inquisitors never quite knew how he trained them to take their pleasures."

 

Nepthys gasped ever so slightly at that, but His Majesty was not finished.

 

"His last known victim was a citizen of Sepfuruna, a female no older than you. To this day he lounges in the darkness of his cell, with not but his own hands and his memories to please himself with. Do you understand? So have a care, and do not repeat this mistake. Else you will find yourself at the mercy of his...gentle caresses."

 

She quailed at that, and all too suddenly the golden haired maid found herself staring right into those eyes of ice blue fire.

 

"I trust that I have made myself clear, so I will ask if you understand. Nod once, if you do."

 

Nepthys nodded her head.

 

The Tyrant of the Black Lands was not a man known for forgiving slights. This was an indisputable facet of his character, something that even his most trusted men might acknowledge, if only privately to avoid his displeasure. The list of perceived slights Pharaoh had suffered were long indeed, and varied in their sources.

 

Virgilius Delphini, the Great Emperor Delphini XV of the Holy Empire had for example, preyed upon Pharaoh's trade ships and subsequently caused the suffering of thousands of Khemetian citizens.

 

High Priest Ubaid of his court condemned him as an incompetent ruler for his lack of a wife and disinterest in having heirs, and used the dissatisfaction of the peasants to bolster his own powerbase.

 

Charmles, First Prince of Ashenvale was not the first to have had touched several of his wards without express permission.

 

Even Omar, his own trusted Chief Inquisitor had felt his displeasure, the gentle giant earning a brand to the chest for an event that no one knew the details about, and none dared to make an inquiry on.

 

Foremost were these amongst those he held grudges, grudges yet held though some were dead and others far and away.

 

Yet now there was one more person who had seen occasion to slight Pharaoh, someone he never wished to exact revenge upon above all else. Someone who had spurned his goodwill and betrayed him...twice. But there would not be a third time.

 

“There will not be a third time,” Pharaoh vowed to himself under his breath. He’d promised you several days ago that you would regret abandoning his protection and generosity at this junction, and he was nothing if not consistent. He would make good on that promise, on all of his promises to you.

 

…

 

Stripping yourself, you thrust his riding coat tainted with acrid smoke fumes under the bed. Eyes stinging, under his cloak you smelt an asphyxiation mix of his musk and tarry wood smoke. The fumes clung to your hair most tenaciously, a trail of pungent breadcrumbs which clearly told the story of your betrayal.

 

You needed to bathe, and you needed to feign innocence.

 

Mud dried sandals rapping against limestone tile you raced through the narrow passage descending into the cavern. Your own footsteps still echoing against the ceiling of the grotto as you stood over the water, your reflection haggard and slovenly, skin battered from ashen smoke gripping at muggy skin beaded with sweat, you realized too late that you were without a fresh change of robes.

 

Returning to the chambers in your current state would be your undoing, you told yourself. So reaching for a wooden bucket, you drove it through the pellucid water. Your elbows buckled under the weight of the bucket as you hoisted it above your head, and ached as you persuaded your joints to tilt it.

 

At the rush of water pouring down however you found solace, relieved of the sweat and dirt on your skin. The column of water splashed against your crown, leaving much of your cascading tresses barely damp, and you would employ many more bucketfuls in your desperate gambit.

 

Wet as a drowned cat after a storm you trekked the stairs back to the chambers. Watery footprints darkened the floor in your wake. They followed you up from the bathing cavern, ascended the stairs, marked your trail until they faded within the confines of the dressing room.

 

Blindly choosing a gown, they all faded into each other, all filmy and indecent; you escaped unseen into the empty bedchamber. As the water collecting at the tips of your locks grew too heavy, they once again plotted your course on the limestone floors with a series of sporadic drips.

 

They would soon dry, so would your skin you hoped, as you peeled away the sodden fabric of your gown which had softened to become a second skin, leaving no contour nor pigment to the imagination. So disrobing, you felt no more exposed.

 

The spoiled dress was wrapped into a ball; it joined his riding cloak under the bed in an oozing mess.

 

Your fingers had only grazed the fresh silk of the new dress when the impatient scrape of sandals on tile drew your attention to the doorway. As his head lifted towards you, you ripped the linen covers from the bed, a trembling grip holding an edge over your exposed breasts, allowing the rest to fall and pool against the floor to conceal your form, limbs still laminated with water.

 

The thin sheets sticking to wet skin, embraced your every curve. It was under its soft touch you grew conscious of your stuttering heart, body threatening to explode into a cloud of fluttering butterflies. And how you wished your trembling limbs would make good on the threat. You wished to suddenly become nothingness, to blend into the obscurity of thin air, and disappear from your awaiting fate.

 

You didn’t want to hear the punishment he would dole; the sound of twisting bones and flesh as they cracked under sharpened blades swept your throat with nausea and you feared most of all its pain. At first you would survive would you not, long enough to endure the agony before you body could bear it no longer? Or would you survive and heal, and would you live to endure him cut you down, limb by helpless limb until you were a human stub?

 

Eyes catching a glossy beak protruding from under the bed, “Would you like to play with me?” you found yourself asking him. They were not sensible words, and they sounded as if they had come from a madwoman, hysterical and breathy.

 

“Play with you?” Pharaoh asked, his words as indecipherable as his eyes, only hinting at shadows of ire and intrigue.

 

For an excruciating moment, your mouth contorted, opening and closing in odd forms, attempting to form the words. “With my birds, Your Majesty, there’s — a canary and a blue bird I don’t quite — ”

 

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said with chilling clarity. Perhaps your discomposure stood to give prominence to his sangfroid, and the distinction was what worsened the shivers he gave. “Where have you been?”

 

“A bath, Your Majesty,” you whimpered. “As you can see, I was having a bath.”

 

“Would that not have been the first place the handmaidens have looked, following the bedchamber? Why ever would you abandon them?”

 

“I’m sorry,” you would only say, casting down your gaze. “Forgive me if I have displeased you. That was never my intention.”

 

At these words he drew closer. Displeased? How could any healthy man be displeased in the face of you. He nearly groaned aloud for the temptation aroused by the sight of you.

 

It was the fairest of mornings, with the sun turning shimmering pinwheels of light across the skies. But no more fair than your appearance.

 

You had no cloth to dry yourself, so your hair clung damply to your shoulders and back, a rippling cascade of ebony. Your legs were long and graceful, your rump deliciously curved as you bent over the bed and ripped the linen sheet off to cover yourself with. His eyes had missed your swollen breasts though as you were, you left nothing to the imagination. With the sun at your back when you turned, the light of day rendered the soaked material almost sheer; clearly visible were the round circlets of your nipples standing high and taut with cold, providing him with a view so enticing he could almost taste you.

 

He could not help it. Slowly he looked the length of you, a scorching appraisal that left no part of you untouched. Did you think him so noble that he would not? If you did, you had woefully underestimated him. Indeed, he was hardly unmoved by the sweetness of your innocent femininity, couched in his most recent fantasies of you. It was a powerful combination that made his blood run hot and his heart pound, his loins swell painfully hard and erect.

 

Having you so close at hand, dainty and bare and drenched in all your glory, staring at him with those wide eyes, was more than he could bear. The linen you used as an attempt at decency only deepened the frenzied longing that had gripped him for these past few days. The urge to drag you against him, to plunge his hardness deep within your womanly core, to feel your moist heat clamp tight around him surged to the forefront of his mind.

 

He drew closer to you still, stopping at the foot of the steps leading to the bed, to you.

 

“Do you know what you do to me?” Pharaoh rasped, an insatiable craving for you ravaging him. He was a parched traveller and you were water, and mere inches form his fingers you stood, taunting him.

 

He would go to you like a sweeping storm, pressing you with his body against the bed. Your lissome form dwarfed under his, and it begged him to complete you. His head found sanctuary against the curve of your neck, cradling him; calling him home. Your rolling pulse called to his lips, and with hungered passion they would devour, obliging your silent plea.

 

He couldn’t see, you had burned his blue eyes blind, hot blood flashing his vision white. In its absence, an instinct for you, guided by an aching pulse.

 

“Your Majesty,” you squealed for the emperor driven mad.

 

Lifting his head swimming in only an image of what he would make of you, he dipped his tongue between the valley of your clavicles. He pressed it flat against the column of your neck, and caressed you with the scorching wetness. At your jaw he would not stop, curving upwards to run it along the raise of your cheeks. He savoured the taste of you, as he hungered for more.

 

Your face and your neck burnt furiously red, and slowly his heat encroached all the rest of you. A part of you wished the sheet would just dissolve. And then what, you wondered. How could this feverish writhing possibly escalate? It seemed to always end before it reached its destined pinnacle, leaving you unsatisfied, only, what was this elusive climax?

 

His wandering lips settled over your ear, tongue suckling it’s curve as he pushed his body in waves against yours. He squeezed moan after moan from your innocent lips; you who still mistook his desperate arousal for pain.

 

“Seto, my king,” you had rounded your last remaining faculties to speak, “do I — do I please you?” You were sceptical of how his features had gathered. “I— I want to please you.”

 

You could not fathom how to seduce a man, where did you touch, where did you need to kiss him? Laying there as if a washed up starfish, allowing his advances, was this adequate? Had you atoned for your disobedience of him?

 

“You want to please me?” His words fell over you in lithe caresses, each chord spun from the finest silk though it grated the lowest of registers. He lifted to hold himself above you, anchored arms pinning the sheets tightly to your sides. “Is that so?”

 

“Yes...” you whispered, entirely unaware that nothing would please him more than an affirmation of your loyalty.

 

His calloused palm slipped over the sheets to trace your nipples. You held your breath, the tightness gathering across your stomach, stiff as a cutting board. He teased them in persuasion to rise, the light sheet tenting as they erected. You squirmed and pleaded absolute nonsense. Was it possible to just shatter at a man’s touch?

 

“Seto,” you moaned, eliciting a curl of satisfaction in the tyrant. He wanted to make you cry out even more, to see his name burning on your tongue, and all over your fragile form; though the faint smell of smoke wrapping you drew grim speculation in his mind. He needed to ask you, but he always found his thoughts scattered around you.

 

“You’re so very innocent,” the young and strikingly beautiful emperor instead husked. “It makes me want to do unwholesome things — ” he leaned into your ears as if bestowing you with the greatest secret “— unspeakable things to you.”

 

“My king?”

 

“You see there’s a certain kind of aching only a man can give his woman, a pain she must endure, something she can only experience with her beloved...something only I can give you.”

 

“What...whatever do you mean?” you stammered, tongue glossing over the words, bewildered by the riddles he spoke. A twinge of fear burned into your heartstrings.

 

He intended to answer you, but your trembling lips beckoned to him, and he descended upon you once more, capturing you in a searing kiss that set aflame everything anew.

 

You had anticipated something savage; not this.

 

His fingers on your breasts clamped like a vise, and unbeknownst to you, he fought the urge to question your whereabouts that morning. The unrelenting feeling would not be persuaded to wait. He was nothing if not faithful to his word, and had your intentions been to betray him, you deserved to be punished. He, and by extension the throne would not be trifled with, but against your lips which were ambrosia, he could not fathom leaving a scar on your lovely form or your absence from his side.

 

He closed his eyes, and with a seemingly great effort he dragged himself up to the surface of the ocean he’d been drowning in. “You told me before, that you do not take promises lightly. And so do I. So promise me...”

 

“Promise that you will never leave my side,” he rasped against your open mouth. “Nothing else would please me more.

 

Swear to me your loyalty, I will allow your attempt to escape this morn pass.”

 

It was a terrifying echo of that night he had discovered you.

 

“My escape...this morning?” You peered up at whetted blades of indicolite, hovering a mere hairsbreadth above. “My king...I wouldn’t dream of leaving your side,’’ you vowed, parted lips moving against his, sharing his air.

 

“You smell of ashes my betrothed, did you think I would not know?”

 

“Your Majesty!”

 

“I do not take kindly to liars,” he cautioned. “Swear me your loyalty and I will pardon your deception.”

 

“I’ve committed a crime worthy of death,” you said, voice as a thin as the highest harp string.

 

“You have,” he husked — no, growled, in your ear.

 

“I will confess I’ve deceived you, but it was only to watch the execution. I — I had no intention but to return to you straight away!”

 

Many moments lapsed in silence, his lips against your ear unmoving. “That was all?”

 

“Your Majesty please, have mercy,” you whimpered.

 

“Beside me, you will have everything,” he said, voice no more audible than a whisper. He whispered as if a lover uttering sweet nothings while he bestowed upon you the grandest of privileges and entitlements. “Reign beside me as my equal, and I will afford you every luxury; as many lavish gardens as you please, all the jewels and finery, and the large palace grounds to raise our many children born in our combined image.”

 

 

As you had known, the crown was too heavy, it’s expectations terrifying.

 

“May they have your eyes Your Majesty?” you asked him, placing a palm on his cheek as he lifted to assess your reaction.

 

Stealing your hand from his cheek, he pressed his lips against the back of your palm. “Was it so difficult to speak these words sooner?”

 

Reversing your grip on your hand he held, with both your hands you clutched his much larger one. Slowly, as he had done, you brought it to your lips. “If I promise you my life, my absolute devotion and my every breath to you, Seto, my king as if you are my only faith, would that appease you for my transgressions this morning? Because I was young and foolish I — ”

 

Your oath interrupted, his lips pressed on yours. His tongue feverishly sought to tangle with yours, stroking and thrusting. 

 

As if by an instinct you were only now discovering, your arms crept to hold him closer, fingers knotting in silky tresses, and gliding over smooth gold to grasp at fine silk.

 

“Your Majesty,” you forced a moan past his parted lips. The weaker his defences, the softer his heart for you, the better. “I’m yours.”

 

This sweet surrender was everything he could have wanted in this very moment. However... "You are unaware of what depths you are attempting to toss yourself into," he said aloud, for both of your sakes. Hearing you offer yourself to him would be enough for the present. This small victory he took as a sign he had discovered the weakness in the fortified walls which guarded your heart. Now he would make his retreat, and resume his campaign for your loyalty anew once he'd calmed the heat which threatened to consume him from the inside.

 

With a herculean effort he attempted to lift himself off and away from your soft form. "We can continue this, later," he said gruffly, tucking a stray curl behind your ear. "Your bath wasn't sufficient in removing the scent of smoke from your hair and I am in a no better state." To his surprise, you only clung to him tighter.

 

"If I am to be your wife, I will not have you tending to yourself on my account," you said in a firm voice. "Whatever ails you, at least let me help ease your suffering. I have some knowledge of medicine."

 

"This can't be eased by normal means," he rasped. "There is no concoction in this earth which could help me find release."

 

"Then at least let me watch what you do to find your release," you insisted, unfamiliar with his slang but wanting to assist him. He looked so haggard and restless, some unknown instinct deep within you yearned to comfort him. "If you do not think I am ready to do this for you, then at least allow me this much."

 

"I don't think I could control myself if you did that." As if unable to help himself he lowered his head once more, his lips moving against yours. Your cry was swallowed by his intense, predatory kiss. "Leave. Now," he demanded, strained. "I must do this before I lose myself further."

 

"I entrust myself to you...Seto," you breathed, the innocent whisper playing havoc with his senses.

 

You cried out even louder than before as those wondrous hands cupped your still aching breasts. You thrashed as another bolt of lightning made you arch up into him as he kneaded the flesh together, then apart.

 

"You're beautiful," that low growling voice spoke in your ear before nipping the lobe and then traveling lower.

 

"What...what have you done to me," was the plea that fell from your lips, swollen from his kisses. You could only submit to the sensations and feel. He had stripped you of all reason with his touch. Your body was weeping, you could feel yourself become damp and throbbing between your legs. Somewhere at the back of your mind you realized this was only the beginning. If this continued, surely you would die from this.

 

Pharaoh wrenched himself away and you opened your eyes to look at him through the haze he'd induced. "It was not my intention to frighten you," he said, his large hands leaving your tormented breasts to slip beneath your back, embracing you. "Now do you understand?" he asked softly, pressing his lips to your cheek.

 

You blinked and moved so you could see his face. His eyes were still like intense, blue flames, but you saw keen intelligence in those orbs as well. You bit your lip and said, "You were doing that on purpose."

 

"It was to prove a point. You are not prepared to be with me. Not yet."

 

"You are right," you admitted in a strangled whisper, feeling your shoulders slump. Your heart was still beating at a frantic pace from whatever it was he was about to do. You felt oddly torn; a part of you glad he had stopped, while another part longing for him to finish what he had provoked.

 

Pharaoh shifted, and you felt that odd bulge prodding you again through the linen blanket that was still wrapped around you. "Of course. I'm always right," he chuckled.

 

When at last he stood up, you moved to the edge of the bed and threw your arms around his waist. You wouldn't be deterred easily.

 

"Please show me where you're hurting the most," you entreated. "Please. I can't bear to watch you in this state. If I am ever to be ready, I need to know what I am dealing with."

 

With a snarl of frustration and impatience he nimbly removed your arms from their tight hold and turned to face you. He then lowered his hands to his kilt, tearing it away from his hips.

 

Your mouth went dry at the sight of the part of Pharaoh that was unlike anything you have ever known, so utterly male, standing so proudly before you. It was thick, hard, and you could see it pulsing ever so slightly. The tip of the head was wet and gleaming and you were torn between wanting to touch it and wanting to move away from it as quickly as you could.

 

You had always been aware that he was so much larger than you in stature. However, face to face with his length like this made you feel small, it was an odd feeling. Odder still was the way your body began to clinch, as if in response to his display.

 

"I see you have a valid concern," you said in a soft voice, staring at the faint scar which at first glance you had believed was a only strip of darker skin. "Is this old wound the root cause of your pain?"

 

His low chuckle made you tremble; for some reason you could not tear your eyes away from his girth to return his gaze. "No. The scar is but a remnant of my rite of passage into the priesthood, many years ago."

 

Why was it that no matter which direction you faced in the Black Lands, you would always discover some sort barbaric ritual? First the burning, and now this? What horrors had been visited upon young boys who wished to become men of the faith? You did not dare to imagine.

 

Without a second thought, you raised your hand to touch it, and broaden your horizons. The prospect of learning new things would always be your vice.

 

"Are you sure you want to do that?" He grunted, snatching your fingers rather reluctantly in his before you made contact.

 

"I am," you answered with a nod before looking him in the eye at long last. You nearly recoiled from the stark hunger in his blue eyes. "However...I want to see you," you said as heat that had nothing to do with the delicious fire that the emperor had stroked within you earlier welled up in your cheeks. "At least, ease yourself. Show me what it’s like when a man releases himself from his ache."

 

Those molten blue eyes commanded all of your focus. "Watch me, my queen. Watch me and find out what it is you do to me." His words made you shiver with both anticipation and confusion, and you silently nodded as his hand went to his generous length.

 

The sight was one that would have been burned into your mind for all eternity. Those searing eyes were locked on yours with each hard stroke that seemed to make him swell and throb even more. Tiny suppressed moans and other low, almost growling noises left his lips before he arched back, thrusting his length out even more. His hips were beginning to move, the muscles in his thighs taut with each thrust into his large hands. It began to darken even more, engorged with his own need as Pharaoh's eyes finally closed as he began to gasp. His body began to quiver more and more and you heard your name whispered reverently from his lips. 

 

Then, suddenly he arched hard with a cry of your name before shuddering. You jerked your head backwards, nearly falling over from shock as thick, white ribbons seemed to erupt from the swollen head; the thick, pearly liquid splattering on Pharaoh's olive skin, shocking in its contrast. A salty, musky smell filled the air that made your body clinch again and you squirmed as the emperor opened bleary eyes towards you.

 

You sat there wide eyed, trembling, and breathing hard as he reached for one corner of the linen sheet you still clung to, cleaning off his hand. "That is what you do to me," he spoke in a rough voice.

 

“I — I do not understand...”

 

“A bath,” he rasped between heavy pants, concealing himself under his kilt, “join me.”

 

You could find no words to object his invitation. The weaker he was for you, the better.

 

…

 

A fleet of dragonflies, wings a whispering-thrum wove amongst the fluttering curtains lit in shattered triangles by sunlight. Ra was defiant, even under the safe haven of the pool’s pavilion ceiling, the air glowed a light gold. The water of the pool was calm, an isolated wave or ripple crossing the crystal surface by the persuasion the wind. It reminded you of the waters which carried sail-boats back in Genova. For the first time, the memory inspired only longing for the man in the room.

 

You stood at the edge of the water, toes curling over, with a clothe draped tightly around you. Pharaoh eased into the water, breaking a larger wave. Sitting on the shallow steps, leaned against the pool ledge, he held out a hand for you.

 

In rhythm with the muslin curtains in the lucid air, you sucked in a deep breath. His bare form was still a wonder; it changed, hardening and softening, the ruddy tip and long shaft. It was so unlike anything you could imagine a human possessing, so massively turgid, and godlike. 

 

His words lingered, what did you do to him?

 

It was unlike anything and it was difficult to not let your eyes slip past the outstretched palm to fixate on the veiny appendage.

“Take that off, let me see you,” he said.

 

You hardly possessed the adequate sense to answer. “In Delphini, my king, it is forbidden for the man to see even his betrothed’s ankles before they are wed.”

 

“Sounds oppressive,” Pharoah responded after some deliberation.

 

“It is propriety. This way, and by other rituals I’m told, we know the young woman is virtuous and pure.”

 

“And what of the man?” he asked. An unexpected query you weren’t entirely certain of the answer. “How do you prove his virtue?”

 

“I — we...” You looked away. “I do not know.”

 

“So then I call it oppressive. A society where women and men are not held equal I see as corrupt. Where a woman is lesser than a man, she cannot be held accountable as a man.”

 

“I haven’t thought of it that way.”

 

“No.”

 

The linen still tied to your chest, you too descended step by step into the water. It was cool, unaffected by the blistering sand outside and your skin rose in prickled waves. The water seem to dissolve the linen grasping at wet skin now, wholly submerged, and it pasted over every rise and fall of your graceful contours, mollifying your betrothed, and at once indulging him.

 

It was still a film over which he was forced to admire you, and yet it was something.

 

He reached behind you and pulled you in, and reached once again for the bunched knot securing your clothe.

 

“Your Majesty, please,” you said hand closing over his, “you’ve seen so much of me already...and this morning. Allow me this until our wedding night. Try as I may it is difficult to silence every belief I have been raised with overnight.”

 

“Is your only reservation my gaze?”

 

“Yes, but please do not bind your eyes as you have.”

 

Releasing a light laugh, he captured your lips, fingers now at your chin. “No.” Instead he called for the handmaidens waiting outside, “Nepthys, Asim, prepare the bath with rose petals and lotus salts for the princess,” he said.

 

The two women shuffled in, expressions noticeably fallen, traces of distress marring their otherwise charming visages. At their heel entered Irene. Naturally, your eyes waited for hers, and as they sought yours, the dismay born in them could not elude you. Her thoughts were transparent, she pitied you. This, you knew was a higher opinion than what she would have for you if she had learnt your feelings.

 

You had grown numb to the conflict. It was not that you had resolved to ignore the budding confusion, but that it had festered to such an extent that it was bigger than you could fathom into reason.

 

A carpet of red and pink roses laden the still water, a carpet of deception, convincing enough to be walked. Under it, you finally shed your linen at his coercion.

 

Irene as she retrieved the soaked clothe appeared as if she would be sick.

 

The Pharaoh asked for a sea sponge from Asim, and asked to be advised of what sweet soaps and oils you were usually lathered with.

 

Drawing across the water closer so that your skins touched, Pharaoh caressed your body first with long fingers, blindly tracing the curves of your swollen mounds, lingering a moment longer against the fleshy firmness of your nipples. Irene grew horrified. You remained absolutely still. Then blue eyes your captor, he followed with the sponge, cleaning you thoroughly.

 

Coating you in sweet soaps, the sponge slithered across the curve of your shoulder. He held you from behind and moved the soapy sponge over your arms, gently lifting each appendage above the water, and again you sucked in with the gossamer curtains, acutely aware of the three pairs of eyes transfixed on you. The throws of their arms were practiced, launching petals and stirring salts.

 

Reaching into the water, he raised your ankle bound leg, and from your pulsing junction, he rubbed the sponge up to your shin, and then to your ankle. He repeated this motion many times in disciplined strokes, reverently. Each time, his fingers had grazed that place only your handmaids has touched, and only for necessarily cleanings, and you grew hot above the water.

 

You had denied your moan until it had splintered to fill the pavilion. In that moment you were tight with a breathless fullness. It was the only way you knew how to describe it, and in this satisfaction you could find no shame; your insides fizzing.

 

The water around you bubbled with white foam. He handed you the sponge and you cinched all over. Looking only at him, you ran it over his broad chest, his brawny arms, his perfectly slender fingers. Your breathing would only fill some of your lungs.

 

There was again, reverence in how he breathed your name. It could almost have been a moan.

 

And it stupefied the maidens, fuelling their own fires.

 

Now turned to him, with both arms you wiped the sponge down the grid of his abdomen. Where his thighs met, the sponge stopped, but your fingers ventured. They wrapped the length of his which grew in a place you were much smoother. Beyond the petals you could not see, but your fingers massaged every raise of its veiny ridges, the swollen head, and against the oils coating your fingers, it grew lusciously hard.

 

At its tip, your fingers dipped against a slit, and from your betrothed’s lips, a smothered groan startled you. Your eyes darted to him at that, but his features were inscrutably stiff. Those sapphire eyes were hard.

 

“It’s suddenly grown so hard...and it’s so large. Does it pain you, Your Majesty?” you asked him.

 

“Sometimes, yes.”

 

“Why keep such an appendage which only brings you pain?”

 

He allowed a strained laugh. “Because pain is not the only thing it afford me.”

 

“What...else does it do Your Majesty?”

 

“Would you like a demonstration?” he whispered, cooling your neck with breaks of warm breath.

 

“I — I don’t kn— ”

 

“Relax,” he husked, placing a chaste kiss on your cheek. “You’re much too easy to unnerve.”

 

“And you’re much too cruel, Your Majesty,” you responded, your lips against his ear, lightly beating his chest. “Have you no compassion?”

 

“Compassion is an exception I am willing to make for you.”

 

Suddenly the ceiling was no longer white, it was an intense sapphire and you were floating in it. The deeper you sunk into the pool, the larger it grew. And in the room, yours wasn’t the only breath held. His breath caressed you, always ardently.

 

When he kissed you, you drowned, and just below the surface of the still water, the absence of air was not the only source of suffocation. There was this sickening gravitation towards him; this blind trust, some instinctive faith, and against every reason urging you to run, this pull had you running towards him. It would only grow with time, you knew, so the less you knew of him, the less you would mourn him the rest of your life.

 

As you surfaced, the need for him consumed you and you grew afraid. How could you ever, even if a one sided love, justify to the world loving a tyrant? You would run.

 

Clambering out of the pool, your hair combed and washed with lotus oil, there was a familiar aching cradled between your hips, tightening against your thighs. You needed to lie down.

 

He would return to court, or whatever it was he did this time of afternoon when not forcibly disposing himself to play your keeper.

 

As always, the handmaidens chattered, this time, Nepthys foaming at the mouth about Pharaoh’s exceptional physique in his state of undress. No one, she has said, has ever witnessed him cloaked in so much humanness.

 

A heavy gaze was exchanged with Irene as she massaged your legs over the sheets. She had only sympathy to give but you did not need her sympathy.

 

“I’ve attended many noble women,” Asim said, “so I know.” Her voice a soothing lull, her practiced hands kneading the small of your back. You had long since stopped separating her words of each other to make sense of them “It will grow more difficult next season, but His Majesty is a saviour, and he has bestowed upon you an honour, and you must bear with it for the empire’s sake.”

 

You had not the slightest understanding for these words, but you hummed in acknowledgement; your preoccupied mind silently listing ingredients for the sleeping potion you would lace into his hibiscus tea.

 

“Children are a treasure in Khemet, just as all life is. The gods have blessed you both.”

 

“I don’t care for children,” you muttered, disinterested by this pointless discourse or for its context.

 

“This is the palace’s best kept secret, but it is said His Majesty loves children.”

 

You could not fathom any mortal as a sincere receptacle of his unchanging affection. “I doubt that,” you replied with offensive conviction. “He hasn’t the room to hold anything dear in his heart.”

 

“Has my king upset you, your highness?”

 

“How dare I be so ungracious. He has been nothing but kind.”

 

Your response was even more baffling, and by now, this exchange had earned the ears of all seven servants in the room. Sensing uneven ground, Asim was wise to not press her concern further. To you, it had grown to be a nuisance.

 

"Could the source of this displeasure be High Priestess Merneith?" Nepthys suddenly asked in the ensuing silence. True to form, she ignored the frantic looks of caution from the other girls. "She has been quite brazen in her pursuit of His Majesty since her arrival in Sepfuruna. Why, only yesterday did she bare her breasts in front of Pharaoh."

 

With much gusto, the fair haired handmaiden regaled to the others how you had caught Merneith and Pharaoh in the act.

 

"You have a gift for spinning tales," Lapis said in her whispery voice. "Are you competing with Wei Shiren to see who has a more active imagination?"

 

"It was not my imagination," Nepthys argued. "And you dare to compare me to that air headed bard. You are too harsh!"

 

"I knew at once you were speaking falsehoods when you described His Majesty's office floor to be covered with scattered parchment. Every slave knows how meticulously clean Pharaoh prefers his chambers to be."

 

As they continued to debate the truthfulness of Nepthys' story, Asim paused in her ministrations to lean closer to you a fraction.

 

"Princess, as the handmaiden with the most seniority in your retinue, may I address you frankly?" After receiving your permission, she said, "It must be difficult to withstand the brunt of His Majesty's ire. I could not imagine what had transpired between you and he, in that short span of time before your shared bath. My deepest sympathies."

 

"I have no need of your sympathy." You had a spark of inspiration. "Instead I have need of your advice, Asim. What can be done to curb his fury? I admit. I am not versed in appeasing a man."

 

Irene made to protest this course of action; it was her belief that you were above acting submissive towards any man, let alone the bloodless king. You stopped her.

 

"It is true that Pharaoh despises those who try to influence his emotions. But I believe you are the exception, Your Highness. Now that I have witnessed his behaviour around you firsthand," Asim said at last. "it is plain to me now, that your touch would be your greatest weapon against His Majesty."

 

You listened attentively as Asim shared Pharaoh's physical training regimen, and the royal physician's recommendations to prevent muscle soreness.

 

"I won't allow it," Irene vowed, glaring at Asim. "I refuse to allow my mistress's body be defiled even further, even on the physician's word."

 

By this point you were ignoring the brewing disagreement between Asim and Irene. You had never given a therapeutic massage to anyone before. But if this was your best bet at weakening Pharaoh's guard, you would deign to learn.

 

…

 

Palms slick with oil of myrrh, you soothed them against his back; his olive skin like a burning brand under the hot desert sun, it gleamed with the coating of oil. The natural oils, they curled into the humid air, infusing it with an aroma of smoky herbs. His face rested against against the linen laden chaise, grunts of pleasure floated past his lips.

 

“Do I please you, Your Majesty?” you asked him, voice a sultry purr as it danced off your tongue.

 

Your cold fingers against the heat of his skin, you pushed the heels of your palms up his back, over every muscled ridge, past his shoulder blades to cup his broad shoulders. Shaping your fingers back to the valley where his shoulder blades met, knotted and wound with tension, with careful turns of your fingertips, you unravelled him, drawing from his lips a long moan keening your name.

 

Each time your fingers caressed up his back, you pressed firmly your breasts against him; your white dress more sheer than the gossamer curtains sailing behind you under the archways of the veranda. As the oil was polished on his back to a warm gloss, you put your lips against the small of his back, marking him with soft kisses up to his shoulders.

 

He turned at this delicate point of contact, baring you his chest. Quelling the urge to swallow your lips, avert your gaze and nurse your stuttering heartbeat, you doused your hands again in oil, placing yourpalms against the swell of his chest. You could ignore your simmering cheeks and those vibrant blue orbs though you knew they saw how your face vermillioned at the sight of him.

 

He caught your wrists; your dress had soaked the tinted oils, sticking slickly over your breasts, as if wet rice paper. He pulled you to lay over him, your flared skirt spilling over him.

 

“Do you please me?” he repeated your question. “A great deal, yes. What’s gotten into you?”

 

You rested your head in the crook of his shoulder, cradling yourself against him. From where you laid, the late afternoon sun was reaching just beyond you, impeded by the high walls of His Majesty’s chambers. “Then I’m glad...I feel your attention from me has strayed, my king,” you said, tracing absent swirls on hischest with your finger, “and I find myself growing increasingly jealous.”

 

As it always did, the river rushed, white waters racing around the curve of the porch raised on a podium; beyond it, a carefully groomed palace garden burning auburn and emerald.

 

“My attention?” He released a guttural chuckle. “I did not realize my betrothed desired me so ardently.”

 

“Once again you mock me Your Majesty, while I have been nothing but sincere. The High Priestess distracts you from me my king and I cannot bear it any longer.”

 

“Merneith? What do you propose?” He would entertain you.

 

“A virility portion, sire, for your attention which has strayed from me.”

 

His fingers idled your breasts, pleased by the sight of you baring so much of yourself to him. “Do you even know what a virility portion is?” His lips languidly kissed your temple.

 

It was impossible to not melt into him.

 

You shivered — no, allowed a frisson to ravage you before you replied, “I imagine it no different than a love potion.”

 

“A love potion?” He snickered, easing you against the chaise as he leaned over you. “You suggest affecting me with a drug, to win yourself my devotion? How very bold of you.”

 

“I will do anything for your affection,” you breathed. “Seto, my king, please grant me the ingredients I need.”

 

“Anything? Prove yourself to me.” 

 

Survival over propriety, strap by strap you peeled away the oil stained fabric and looked up at him expectantly, a blush deeper than before blistering your cheeks. Nausea stirred your gut and you thought you might swallow your tongue; a part of you appalled at the liberty you afforded him. Still, you saw where his eyes tracked. You knew how much the tyrant ached to shape your full, bare breasts into his palms. So you would concede to his hunger to see your plans come to fruition.

 

His breath hissed. Cool air rushed across your bare skin. In some far corner of your mind, you exulted at being desired by such a powerful man. Submitting yourself to him in this moment did not feel like a surrender; rather, it felt like the roles had reversed and you were the puppet master, the Ruler of Two Lands dancing upon your palm.

 

Unbeknownst to you, Pharaoh yearned to do more than simply weigh your breasts, delightfully round and unblemished, in his palms. You were somewhat prepared for his taunting fingertips circling your nipples; his thumbs raked across the budding crests and you gasped, loudly. It was the feel of his mouth, hot and wet, tugging at the tip of your left breast that caused scalding heat to flash in waves through your body.

 

It was as if you were tumbling down a well, tumbling into some vast unknown place. You shivered and mewled as his mouth grew hungrier, the contact deeper, intimate and fervent now. With a hard flex of his jaw, he forced a wanton cry from your throat.

 

It was strange, you did not imagine yourself elsewhere. It sparked in your mind as fleetingly as a falling star in crisp Autumn that with this euphoria you could numb yourself and stay by his side.

 

From your bleary eyes you could see the azure sky dome over you. In what had once reminded you of faraway lands and freedom, you could only see his eyes. For as long as you would live, in every clear daybreak and in every tempest you would see him, and you would think about what could have been, had the both of you existed and found each other in a different time, in a different life.

 

Your heart grew heavy, and you held him closer, inadvertently gripping at his hair with so much tenacity and unresolved affection for him that you earned his notice.

 

“Am I hurting you?” he inquired, a gentle thumb wiping at the corners of your eyes.

 

“No,” you said, “the thought of you embracing another woman is so devastating.”

 

“Impossible,” he replied, adamant and utterly oblivious, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

 

Except it was wholly possible, in fact he would go on to have many. Sometime soon to the verandas and corridors of this palace you would only be a fading memory and he would find another, then another. Beautiful women were in abundance around him, and you would vanish to obscurity.

 

“...If it puts your mind at ease,” the young emperor husked, planting kiss after kiss against your cheek. “What do you need for this love potion?”

 

He was still yours, your mind screamed. You could put to his lips some sweet tea and devote yourself entirely. If you were good, perhaps you wouldn’t become another life strung at the end of his blade; if you bore him a worthy heir and enough children, perhaps he would look kindly upon you.

 

Reaching for the golden bowl of fruit, you plucked a ripe grape between your fingers and pressed it to his lips. In the end, perhaps there had never truly been another fate; you could hear yourself reciting the ingredients for a tonic which would paralyze him, and you could hear your own heart fall to pieces.

 

 

…

 

You feared he had seen through your ruse and divined your hidden intentions. All throughout the rest of the day, since you had put forth your request he’d become withdrawn. Even more than usual. You reasoned that if he truly knew of your plot he would have immediately punished you harshly for this blatant betrayal of his goodwill, not request you to cuddle against his side as he was distracted by the reports which the runners had abruptly brought before him. Nor would he have given you such a tender kiss upon the crown of your head before leaving the chambers to address his war council. Still, the unease brewed.

 

Later that evening you sat alone on the veranda, perusing a letter from Pharaoh which had been delivered to you after supper. The emperor himself had been entirely absent from the chambers for over four hours since the war council had called for him earlier, and the letter contained a brief apology for his sudden departure and his late return. The most surprising about this gesture was how he’d written the note using the alphabet unique to Genova. You were certain this was another ploy to impress you with his greatness and yet you had found yourself smiling like an absolute idiot.

 

At the very bottom of the letter was his baffling request for you to meet him in the main courtyard, beside the great stone pool when the moon was high. Which led you to here and now.

 

Tonight your handmaidens had put great effort in dressing you warmly, in defiance of the night chill. As usual you had two of the girls accompanying you, this time it was Mirina and Lapis. Omar and three of his men stood vigil not too far away; a bruise had bloomed upon his jaw and your gaze was morbidly drawn to it. The Chief Inquisitor had reassured you he was fine, that a raw recruit had swung a bit too wildly during an afternoon drill and had landed the blow. Out of the corner of your eye you observed how the other inhabitants of the royal palace kept a respectable distance from you, a distance underlined with trepidation and uncertainty.

 

Not long after you'd arrived Pharaoh himself appeared in the courtyard with his own retinue, drawing attention from every single soul in the immediate area. The fear and reverence which permeated the air was so thick it was almost tangible.

 

As soon as you were within reach he lifted his arm and gently took hold of your hand.

 

“I have told you before that at my will I could grant you your every desire. On this night, I will prove it to you,” he said. You couldn't fathom why he wore such a solemn expression on his face, a stark contrast to the confidence oozing from his every word.

 

Pale moonbeams lit the sandstone as he led you down corridors you had never ventured through before. When the two of you passed underneath an especially resplendent archway, you immediately noticed how far each of your retinues had fallen back, giving the two of you much privacy as possible. Anticipation and curiosity for what Pharaoh had in store heightened.

 

Even then, the yawn escaped you before you could comprehend what you'd done. His eyes flickered towards you. "My deepest apologies, sire," you mumbled. It was years of training that kept you from stumbling over your courtly etiquette.

 

Those blue eyes were alight with amusement. "No need to bare your fangs at me. We will arrive at our destination directly."

 

By all accounts, the night was still young. But over the past several days you'd become accustomed to sleeping much earlier than before. Still, it was quite embarrassing for him to have witnessed you in a moment of personal weakness such as this.

 

"The bards liken you to the goddess Bastet, and it is plain to me that their songs are not entirely inaccurate."

 

"What sort of goddess is she?"

 

"We've arrived," he said abruptly, snapping you to attention.

 

At first glance he appeared to be leading you through another palace garden, but the dizzying number of twists and turns, as well as the intimidating number of heavy wooden doors everywhere you looked, began to resemble the labyrinthine layout of the secret underground passages. There was this hushed stillness hanging over you, you were subconsciously holding your breath, afraid that the slightest puff of air would shatter the fragile peace that wrapped about you like a blanket.

 

A quick peek over your shoulder revealed the silent, pensive yet reverent looks on the faces of the handmaids and sentinels. All at once you had an epiphany, that these were the sacred worship grounds of the gods. The same sacred worship grounds which you'd been barred from entering, the night Pharaoh communed with higher powers regarding Ife's execution. Tonight he obviously had no reservations about bringing you here, you thought darkly.

 

The two of you ascended two sets of carved stone staircases. On both sides, white and red rose bushes bloomed defiantly every step of the way. It was hauntingly nostalgic.

 

Nostalgia did not prepare you for what you found at the top of the manmade hill.

 

"What..."

 

Your eyes were wide, though even at their most open you could not entirely absorb the sight. It had been months, but the proud skeletal structure made entirely of marble, intricately carved to imitate twisting, climbing vines before you was at once a familiar and heartbreaking sight. This was a Temple of the Moon. Never had you expected a house of worship from the Holy Empire so close at hand, tucked away in the furthest corners of the emperor's sacred grounds.

 

 

The whole garden was alive, harvesting the light of the moon. Pharaoh said nothing as you abandoned his hold to explore. At its centre you found a replica almost exact, of the Poison Garden, which Brides of each generation over many successive generations have faithfully maintained. The raining moonlight shattered against the skeletal marble arches into a crystal kaleidoscope of light, bathing the botanical blooms and majestically overgrown vines in a frazil-silver. There, enclosed within the Poison Garden was the Moon's Mirror. It was a well built into the ground, skilfully positioned to catch the face of the moon itself upon its clear surface, its water an ethereal silver as if living mercury. In the Holy Empire, when the tides receded, so would the well water, and a spiral of steps reaching into the depths of it would reveal themselves. And here, beside the well was a raised platform made of wood where you would perform your rites, just as you remembered. 

 

"So this is why you brought me here during such a late hour," you said. You could feel Pharaoh standing directly behind you. "If your objective was to amaze me...you have succeeded. Exceptionally so. I have no words...this is truly...extraordinary."

 

It did not escape your thoughts, the many hours of meticulous labour which would have been required of Pharaoh’s slaves and architects to reconstruct one of Delphini’s most sacred temples, to its finest detail. It must have been an effort which spanned many years of design and construction. You gazed sightlessly at the moon's reflection in the well. Just how long ago did he commission this, you wondered, and with what purpose? What could have possessed him to build something so entirely unrelated, years, perhaps a decade before he would ever know you would become his bride? He couldn't have had built something of such incredible complexity for you, it was the only explanation. Otherwise, it would be something truly sinister.

 

Gently he leaned down to embrace you. "All of your requested ingredients can be found here, correct?"

 

"I would have to check to be sure...but given how true to the original Temple of the Moon this is, I wouldn't doubt it."

 

"Then we gather them up for your potion without delay." He laid a kiss on your cheek.

 

Cold flames lay siege across your chest.

 

Yes, you thought. You would use each ingredient to great effect...and place the bloodless king under a deep slumber which he wouldn't recover from until you were many lands away from his grasp.

 

…

 

Under the gentle persuasion of the brass pestle the poppy seeds ruptured, and blended with the chia seeds. Over the fire the dancing water drained the hibiscus blossom white. Thickened with valerian root, the potent pour of wine deepened the cordial’s blood red hue.

 

Across the study he watched you, impassive eyes tracing your turned back over the written lines in his open scroll.

 

This was the most dangerous game, a gambit of insanity. With each herb added to boil, your hands trembled; you scattered poppy and chia seeds across his wooden desk. Fingers splayed, your palms slipping with a film of dampness, you attempted to stop the rolling seeds. Instead a much larger hand cupped just past the edge of the desk, catching the runaway pips. He added them to the cordial bubbling over the small flame.

 

“Thank y— thank you,” you said, swallowing hard.

 

He took a whiff of the plucked shoe flowers. He would say nothing, though eyeing you scrupulously, then silently pacing back to assume his seat against the far case housing a vast collection of scrolls.

 

You stood there, back still to him, too petrified to execute the delivery. You extinguished the flame, the rising bubbles scattered across the surface falling silently. The sheet of stillness settled over the red tonic. You drained it through a sieve, silently chanting.

 

As you faced him, he already stood behind you. “You should know...I wish to let you know,” he said, accepting the chalice filled to the brim, an inscrutable tenseness to his speech, “that I’m already yours.”

 

It was a warning, you should have realized it then.

 

“I am not satisfied Your Majesty. I wish for all of you.”

 

“Without this,” he said, a stern line between his brows, “you may still have all of me. My trust and devotion to you, at the exclusion of all other women for as long the both of us shall live.”

 

You grew tense, desperate, urgency pulsing through all of you. “Do you not trust my mastery of this art?” Your reaching fingers coerced the goblet to his lips and he obliged, a severe expression gathering like storm clouds.

 

Relieving him of the empty goblet, soon to be forgotten on his desk, you shed your tasseled silk cloak. Standing before him in your plain linen nightgown, you reached for his hand, guiding him coquettishly into the bed chamber.

 

Again he indulged your lead.

 

At the steps of the bed you looked up to him. “Has it worked?” you inquired innocently. “Are you mine now, Seto?”

 

“I” he emphasized, “have not wavered in my pursuit of you. I will never waver in my devotion to you.”

 

“As will I, my king.”

 

His eyes darted between yours, scrutinizingly; invasively. “So you say.”

 

“Seto,” you gasped, wrapping your arms around him. “Hold me.”

 

“You’re not acting like yourself my betrothed,” he replied, though he couldn’t find it in himself to reject you.

 

“Among young and foolish, I was many things to you, Pharaoh...uncourteous and disrespectful. Perhaps High Priestess Merneith was a blessing in disguise because she opened my eyes to many things. When I saw her in your study, baring herself to you so brazenly, the man promised to me, I felt something special was taken from me.”

 

He remained perfectly dispassionate.

 

“I’ve never had anything to call my own.

 

“Tell me more about your kingdom our children will be calling home.”

 

He should have relented where you had addressed the empire as his kingdom, but even the most powerful of men rendered themselves fools for the mere shadows of love, and before you it was exactly what he had become.

 

He claimed you in his arms and wrapped himself around you, laying with you in bed as he detailed to you the great military victories of his campaigns.

 

There was a profound pause. It was the greatest thing he could boast of his life, but then he realized, you probably condemned them all.

 

“I always thought the stars were infinitely beautiful,” you told him, eyes skipping from start to distant star just beyond his window.

 

“Do you not anymore?” he asked.

 

“What fool would find them beautiful having beheld you, Your Majesty?”

 

“My words for you,” he quietly repeated over your ear.

 

You turned to him, burrowing yourself deeper, allowing yourself to indulge one final time in the warmth of his embrace. Your eyes burned at the imminent separation, and witnessed a distant future where you would look back on this moment. You would regret leaving him; him as your lover, him as a person and not the protector of a people and an empire. You would miss him each night you trekked the desert in search of some faraway land to escape his influence. And you would cherish him who in this moment was only yours.

 

A gentle whimper broke from your lips and he pulled apart. The tears were evident and he asked after them.

 

“Could we not,” you childishly asked him, “...could we not run away together? Away from...all of this and everything?”

 

“Are you still afraid of the crown?”

 

“Without the crown you would have the liberty to be kind,” you spoke thoughtlessly.

 

“Child,” Pharaoh sighed. “What meaning is there without power? What would you live for?”

 

“Love,” you replied. “Are even the greatest of loves not worth disposing of yourself entirely for?”

 

“Why sacrifice one for another when you could have both?”

 

You could say nothing without exposing yourself entirely to him.

 

“My thoughts lacked foresight, forgive me,” you said.

 

“There’s nothing to be forgiven. You’re still very young. You have much to learn.”

 

“Can sense be taught?”

 

“Study under me,” he suggested urgently. “Learn the language, politics, the affairs of the court, and military strategies. If you understand the principles of war and experience its reality, perhaps it would ease your prejudice of how I govern this nation’s affairs.”

 

“Are you suggesting I come to the front lines with you?”

 

He appraised you with severe eyes. “I gave my word to never lay without you by my side.”

 

“I don’t want to.”

 

“If you have no mind for intellectual pursuits, then train with me. From how well you pitched that fruit at me from a distance, I think you would make a fine marksman.”

 

“Markswoman,” you corrected.

 

“Yes,” he said sparing a faint smile. “Markswoman.”

 

“I don’t see myself fighting by your side, Your Majesty.”

 

“If you’d like to continue your studies from Delphini, I will have scholars summoned.”

 

“I’ll gratefully accept just the thought,” you told him.

 

“I possess no qualms with you spending out the rest of your life as you please in the comforts of this palace. I will provide you every luxury you ask of me. It is within your rights as my royal wife and queen. I will not ask,” he spoke solemnly, “for you to involve yourself with politics or war...or conversely for being a woman, not to. I will regard you as my equal. I will not ask for you to involve yourself in anything which troubles your heart. In exchange I will only ask you for an heir, and your reciprocated devotion.”

 

“I’m tired,” you murmured in response. “Your grace truly know no bounds. But we have the rest of our lives to decide how we want to spend it, why concern ourselves with it now?”

 

“Because I desire confirmation that you envision such a future with me, any future. Just as you have asked me for my singular devotion to you. Nothing in life is without expectation of reciprocation.”

 

“I wish to sleep,” you said stubbornly, “and I wish my betrothed would extinguish the torch lights and hold me more comfortably. I may yet to become your wife, Pharaoh, but that will not reserve me from ceaselessly nagging you as a wife ought to.”

 

His was a wry smile, almost scorning you. Yet he would receive this as the vaguest of promises.

 

Servants were summoned and the room soon fell dark. “How would you like me to hold you?” he husked, unchangingly a fool.

 

“Like this,” you said, shifting his arm under you to cradle your neck. His other arm you draped over your waist.

 

He watched you for only the most fleeting of moments before dulling indicolite disappeared under heavy lids. He breathed as if he carried the weight of the world, and it was almost as if the passage of time had become acutely perceptible at your fingertips soothing his cheeks as you counted the seconds for his breaths to even and calm.

 

He was still yours, so you would kiss him. His lips didn’t move against yours but that was expected. You would open your eyes the next morning to the same sight, and sun after drowning sun, the palace would continue uninterrupted. History would remember you as his. Andit would almost be fine.

 

“I will remember you like this,” you whispered, kissing him passionately on the lips. Then you would leave him.

 

He didn’t oppose you abandoning his side; how could he?

 

From the dressing room you retrieved one of his many riding cloaks and tied together its ends. It was so obviously a bid to hold onto for as long as you could any part of him, even if just his scent until the desert sands spent it all.

 

You pulled on the most concealing gown, the hue of midnight; you could move unseen. You draped yourself with heavy jewels, and swept off as many as you could carry off the shelves. On to your bare arms you draped another of his heavy riding coats. It would impede your speed, but it would afford you safe passage past the guards at the far main gates of the palace.

 

Always listening over your shoulder for his footsteps, his presence behind you; his knife at your throat, into the improvised rucksack you folded several gowns, and from his armoury you procured a collection of daggers.

 

Then once again you found yourself in his chamber, beside the bed. His breathing was even, unchanged. You reached for your two windup toys perched on the highest step under the bed, eyes never straying from him. The canary and the blue bird packed into your sack, you still stood over him, unable to remember for the briefest second why it was that you had to leave.

 

All the words he needed to hear you recited in your mind. Perhaps you should have left him a letter but what a laughable thought that was, leaving a love letter for the man you were about to betray; for a man you had known a handful of days, the greater part of that spent at odds.

 

Clutching a blade under the draping sleeves of his cloak you crept down the steps and across the room, your course intended for the secret underground passageway in his armoury. From there you would navigate the labyrinth from memory and emerge at the pine grove. It was as far as your mind could map.

 

Behind you by the great ebony doors leading out of his chambers, the wind sang, a whispery whistle as the air was cut. It was a low keening and you turned at its cry; a jewel hilted dagger sailing just wide of your cheek to pin you by the shoulder of your riding cloak to the soft polished wood. The wood greeted your back with a harsh thump. Air drained from your lungs and in a hazy panic, abandoning your bag, you fought the knife grazing your shoulder, threatening to pierce flesh at the slightest movement.

 

Elusive to the untrained eye, you heard the flight of the second dagger, and its plunge into your cloak just below your underarm. Hung from the door on both sides, your quivering eyes sought to find the master of these blades. You met them at a distance, smouldering with betrayal. He set sail a third dagger; you closed your eyes.

 

The wood split open and you could feel the cool of the blade bleeding into your neck. At first, there was a tranquil calm. You could think nothing, you had expected death. Though when you opened your eyes he was advancing towards you.

 

Then you felt the beat of your heart, the acute awareness of the rush of your own blood in your veins. It was so severe that his presence was secondary and distant; all until his nimble fingers grasped your neck like serpents slowly encroaching prey.

 

“From the moment you asked for those ingredients I knew exactly of your intentions,” he seethed lowly, “and yet at every turn I waited for you in good faith.” His grip tightened and what was left of the air in your lungs was set aflame. Sound stretched, coming from a faraway place. It was the husk you heard when you pressed a hollow conch to your ear; how you could hear the sea from very far. Him before you was blurring into a mirage.

 

Your voice hoarse, you pleaded nonsense. The winds circling in from the Nile fanned at your tears, they ran cold on cheeks reddening to burst.

 

“You are as slippery as a greased eel. But even you had no hope of escaping my carefully woven net. Still, why is it that I feel the moment I release you, you would vanish from my sight?”

 

You could no longer see his expression, eyes falling towards the ceiling.

 

Then you fell into him, the sharp clang of blades on smooth sandstone tile reverberating. Slung from his arms you retched, the reflexive wheezing sucking in the rancid bile which had leaked across your palate up into your nose and wind pipe. The air filled your lungs as if salt water rushing into cleanse a wound stabbed with splinters.

 

There was a palm soothing your back, as if to heal you from his own punishment. “This is why I tell you not to cross me,” he spoke.

 

You renewed your slipping grip on his stolen blade. Stumbling apart from him, you swung waveringly for his neck. It stopped a mere breath from his flesh, short of severing an embossed vein, by his fingers shackling your wrist. Your other hand also snatched, though you could not raise your eyes to meet his, expecting you, you would not relent.

 

You would stubbornly push the blade further for his neck; his hands were painful on yours but his hold weak. They were firm until yours fell limp. Cautious fingers stole past your wrist to your fingers toapprehend your blade, and exploiting their distraction you drove the blade into his neck.

 

Rich scarlet ribboned from a hairline cut and the taste of iron manifested in the back of your throat; you imagined you could smell the metallic aroma melting into thick air.

 

Arresting your wrist, he snapped your arms away from you, and your tortured cry splintered across the quiet room, riding the night over the roar of the Nile. He wrapped your wrists with increasing pressure until the blade fell loose from your hands.

 

“For a woman so afraid of death, why are you so insistent on dying by my hands?” he scorned.

 

“Living,” you rasped in reply, “has always been a privilege denied to me by everyone around me your majesty; dying never something that would be decided by own hands. We are only playing out the inevitable. I would have died by your hands regardless. Whether I died after I have given you a child or before would be the only thing that would be changed.”

 

“Died after you have given me a child...do you paint me so repulsively in your mind? After all that doting and grand declarations of affection, you saw me as a man capable of killing the mother of my own child?”

 

“I see you a man capable of slaughtering anyone, whether I have given you flesh and blood would hardly change that.”

 

“I’m a man capable of murdering traitors, which you yourself have just disposed yourself to become!” he snarled.

 

“Kill me then!” you screamed. “Kill me and put me out of my misery.”

 

“In the end you’re a child who doesn’t know what she wants.”

 

“I know that I do not want you! Charmles’ touch made me shudder with disgust, and so did yours,” you shrieked, a rallying anger rising like the Genovan tides within you. “I did not want to be a Queen. I did not want you!”

 

Pharaoh went entirely still, both within and without. Those words scalded him, burning him through like a raw, blistering windstorm. But he would not allow you to know the depths of his hurt. He masked his pain effortlessly as only the Ruler of Two Lands could.

 

"You lie, princess."

 

"I do not!"

 

The emperor's response was instantaneous and uncontrollable. He snatched you to him, lowered his head and smothered your mouth with his. Boldly he clamped your breasts with both hands, expertly raking his thumbs across both peaks until they became taut with longing. It was his intent to show you what utter rubbish you spoke.

 

Dismayed by your body's involuntary reaction to him, you broke free from his lips with a gasp. The gaze he levelled upon you was one of fearsome intensity.

 

"Will you deny the woman you are?" he demanded. "What you feel? You are not as cold as an underwater grave. You are not without passion! I've felt it for myself, and by the gods I feel it now."

 

The continued possessive hold of those strong, olive skinned hands upon your bosom wrung a choked sound from deep within your throat. You tore yourself away.

 

"You pretend to know the secrets of my heart," you cried, "but you know nothing of me!"

 

His jaw clenched. His regard relentless, his temper unconcealed. "You want me," he said fiercely. "You want me as much as I want you. You may claim differently, but I know. I've felt your lips part beneath mine. I've felt your heart tumbling against mine! If it is not so, if you do not want me, if you feel nothing for me, then tell me now. Was that all a part of your ruse as well?"

 

“I could have loved you had you not been a murderer!” The confession rippled, and in its silence the room was eerie.

 

In the end you were saying, that he could not be loved. It was impossible. Pharaoh was tired. Tired of losing. Tired of fighting a battle of attrition, a battle that could not be won. You did not want him. His lips twisted with derision. You would never want him, he thought blackly. Ultimately, you were no different than the others.

 

No different from the others so you would receive no special treatment. He would ravish you, as was his right and he would take from you over and over. Whether he had to smother your screams or pin and contort your limbs would no longer disturb his conscience.

 

“I have wasted too much of my patience waiting for you to give yourself to me, princess. Allow me to show you what it means to be with a man.”

 

“No!”

 

Knuckles burning white you fought his tightening ambush. In spite of how small he had resolved to regard you in that moment, he found himself unable to surrender you with his full force, and the ensuing struggle unto which he would only exert a fraction of his might, helplessly afraid he would fracture your dainty limbs reduced you both to a pile on the limestone floor.

 

He sat over you, this situation nauseatingly familiar. You could only hear breathing in the room.

 

Tears beaded and spilled, dampening your hair and running cold in your ears. No longer able to endure those sapphire eyes, you closed your own. The image you had imposed upon him as your lover for however brief would shatter there. He was the same, inside and out. There existed only one version of him and he would always be a conqueror...of all things; a cold blooded murderer.

 

“Is it so revolting to you the thought of my touch? Am I so unbearable to you that you would make an attempt on my life?” His voice assaulted every walls and pillar, surely to be heard down every corridor of the sleeping palace. Then it lowered to a threatening husk. “I couldn’t even entertain the thought of spilling a drop of your blood.”

 

In a fit of fury he stripped you of his riding coat; and between his clenched fists, your dress halved to reveal you. It could only be called a struggle if you had stood a fighting chance, but under his will and those eyes, even a whimper was difficultly wrung from your throat. Still, like a rebelling marionette under her puppet-master you twitched, defying his claim on your body.

 

“If you have something to say, say it!”

 

“...If you must kill me to satiate your blood lust then at least allow me my honour!”

 

“Death?” He laughed madly pouring over you, lips sucking at the raw trail of bruises from the pulse of neck to your protruding clavicles. “As tempting as the thought is, death would be a merciful fate. That would be giving you what you want, the liberty to leave me. _You will never be rid of me. History will remember you as mine_.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, let us know what you think!
> 
> Reader’s dress while she was massaging Seto: https://pin.it/z536f6mrqgaifd  
> Reader’s dress while she was attempting to escape: https://pin.it/3oi5zp5oqxc6ji


	10. Disillusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s a shorter chapter in hopes of making this thing go forward faster. 
> 
> Enjoy!

 

Arrested by fingers of steel, humiliated, it would do your pride no favours to cry, and yet you did, paroxysms of violent tremors devastating your body. 

 

"Why is the thought of me so repulsive?" he repeated; it had become a chant. He said it so often. "Silence!" he commanded, and the way thundering noise blaring at a cliff side amplified an avalanche already tumbling, you grew inconsolable. 

 

So he would remedy this in the only way he knew how, the way he always did his enemies. His fingers encircled your neck once again, tying in knots all air and sound that escaped your throat, defying him. He gripped you tighter and tighter, drawing the muscles pulled taut in anticipation into a bunch. The last of the air you had saved in your lungs drained and your chest began to boil, heart racing. He left you no room to ask for mercy. 

 

At long last he did silence you, the sensation of the cold floor fading into distance. You were hot all over, everything in your being pushed to the edges of yourself. You waited for your eardrums to burst; there was no sound, only a long keening, as if a siren's song at sea.

 

You didn't know how long you waited for it all to pass.  

 

How long had passed until he relented, distracted by another figure standing over you? Irene was leaned over you, frozen in her motion, a jewelled goblet in her captured wrist. It had not met its intended target. And in an instance, Pharaoh had struck her to the ground. Her form twitched ever so slightly, the only sign that she was alive, in her  body otherwise deadly still. 

 

In this rapid sequence, another handmaid responsible for its catalysis, one whose name you could not remember stepped forward. "Your Majesty, have mercy," she begged, intervening as if to shield you. She threw a ripped shred of the riding coat over you. It smelt distinctly of him. 

 

This was all a haze above you. If you coughed, or sputtered blood, you were unconscious to it. Your palate tasted of copper and fresh pain was beginning to encroach your head and limbs.  

 

Then the soldiers marched in, the guardsmen or whatever they called the tyrant's right hand men. They snatched Irene and turned to you; the culprit who shook the empire's blood. The handmaiden who he called Lapis had been swept to the side. Your eyes were too slow to discern this, but just as the wind swept the rain, she too met the harsh ground. You waited to part from the ground, to feel the hard shackles of the royal guard bind you, though you would likely be numb to it. 

 

Except the young emperor said, you were still his, where did they plan to march you? "Take one step closer to her, and you won't live to see the next sunrise."

 

"Your Majesty, she has dared to spill divine blood," a young man you recognized having dined with once protested, "we cannot simply ignore what has happened!"

 

Your eyes inadvertently darted to the rouge spilling onto his bare chest. His so called divine blood did not appear any different from that of a mere mortal.

 

The spine-chilling laugh which came forth from Pharaoh's lips would resonate in your dreams, you were certain of it. "I should wonder not. I would find it the height of ridiculousness to somehow ignore this utter farce, Dreadlander."

 

The green eyed teen made to respond, but another guard interrupted, and from there the brusque conversation devolved into words beyond your comprehension.

 

When it recovered, the tongue to a form that you could comprehend, he was speaking to you again. Everyone left the room, and he swept you up into his arms. The thought of being alone in his company was petrifying. Now more than ever, you knew with certainty the true face of death. Did you wish it was not so handsome? 

 

He let the bed break your fall at the end of his throw where his arms ended and clambered on all fours over you. The scarlet dripped to trickle down the valley of your bare breasts and the morbidness of it all stirred nausea in your gut. 

 

His features were rigid and stony. Bending over you, he caught your chin between and thumb and forefinger, allowing no retreat. Heart a wild cyclone, you found yourself staring into eyes that impaled you with the fierceness of their glow. 

 

The room fell silent; did he expect you to speak? He would be waiting a very long time because you didn't think you knew the words. 

 

"Foolish child," he hissed, "to fall out of favour with me, your king and guardian...your husband, I who decide your fate. Why do you insist on courting death?"

 

They were all words you had heard in some form or another, only his eloquent prose changed. The answer would always be the same and he would never want to hear it. 

 

He produced a phial, the clear red liquid gleamed in the moonlight and as it was forced past your lips, a tart sweetness resonating at the back of your palate with a bitterness. You could not question it nor retch against the palm he held clasped firmly against your mouth.

 

“It’s inconceivable to me the thought of punishing you the way you think acceptable to punish me,” the tyrant said, leaned over you. “You accuse me of being cruel and being without principle. I have only ever returned what I have been dealt. Perhaps ten or even a hundred fold but it has never been unprovoked.

 

“You’ve committed treason of the highest degree,” Pharaoh said in a whisper which seemed to slither across your skin. “An attempt on my life, it is not only treason but an act of unforgivable heresy. Do you understand the severity of what you have done? In the morn, word of this heinous crime shall find its way to the entire court, and the empire would cry for your blood dashed across the stone. Allowing you a taste of your own medicine instead, this paralyzingly sleeping potion of your own devise, I think reasonable. In fact it is more kindness than you deserve.

 

“With this, you will have no choice but to remain at my side during the night, my queen. Until death separates us.”

 

There was something you would go on to remember with vivid clarity for as long as you lived, you thought; those vibrant blue eyes which served as a portal to a soul usually kept well guarded, though now you could see clearly. It was bleak and hollow, and like a frozen tundra, so unbearably barren.

 

The illusion of him, whatever small and delusional one you had conjured of him had long shattered but perhaps this was the moment you truly stopped searching for a glimpse of the lover you had allowed yourself to daydream of running away with together. And perhaps you had brought unto both yourselves these circumstances by a fate of your own creation though still, you cried.

 

It was the final sign of defeat. It was ambiguous, unclear to even you whether you cried for the man you had lost or the future which had grazed your fingertips before slipping away. Maybe it was the combine possibility of both.

 

He laid down beside you, somewhere in the realm where your body ended and the rest of the world started. You couldn’t feel yourself, how were your limbs oriented, was he touching you...holding you? You couldn’t even discern the separation of time as your eyelids gave way to pitch black.

 

...

 

"Prophetic dreams?"

 

"Tis all dreams that are prophetic," Mahaado corrected, laughing at your obvious disdain. "Which is why my people have so much faith in them. We have many studies on the subject, that have spanned over a thousand years. Within our dreams are signs and images of possible futures that shall come to pass, and when we wake a comparison of previously interpreted symbols guides our everyday lives."

 

"All dreams are prophetic?" You were naturally suspicious of the mystical; never believing in your own local Lightsworn faiths to begin with.

 

"I see you have some doubts. Then, why don't you tell me of a dream that you remember, Your Highness," Mahaado coaxed. He wasn't fooled by your indifference. Your eyes always had a particular gleam in them whenever you wished to learn more about a subject. "By unraveling the hidden messages of your dreams together, you will come to understand."

 

After some more gentle persuasion you told him of a reoccurring dream you had since you were named Bride of the Moon.

 

In this dream you glimpsed an endless deep velvet night, full of swirling stars. You were floating weightlessly, watching as streams of light and shadow churned and melded together, enfolding you in an ethereal embrace and dancing around you in bursts of sparks. There was nothing which separated the sky and the sea, but still you had no trouble with breathing or movement in this small yet vast space in-between. You were convinced this was what flying was like. You wished to remain here for eternity...

 

"Flying," Mahaado mused. "Flying in a sea of stars."

 

"Would it not mean 'freedom'," you quipped. "How very dull. Why rely on a science perfected over a millennia when such messages could readily be interpreted using logic and common sense?"

 

His smile was knowing. "Dreams rarely ever follow the logic and common sense of our waking lives. 'Flying' would not equate to freedom, as you postulated. You would also need to step back and examine the other parts of your dream."

 

It always ended there, that dream.

 

...

 

A soft, mournful wail startled you out of your pleasant slumber into wakefulness. Your eyes trained upon the high ceiling, you waited for the sound to repeat. It did not.

 

Your dreams of Mahaado were becoming much sharper, clearer. As if you were reliving the moments you spent together, of his stories and lessons.

 

A painful heaviness was overwhelming all other sensation in your lower abdomen, bleeding into your thighs; it was as if you had been sawn in half and the discomfort was all encompassing in a way that it had taken you some moments to realize that this was not some fatal injury. You would need medicine.

 

"A third one..." you remarked of the three birds sitting in a row. You could not help the streaming tears as you looked towards them. The canary and the mysterious blue bird stood side by side in the late morning light, a baby bird nestled between them.

 

"You came to me many years ago, from this faraway desert kingdom," you whispered, gazing at the canary. Of the three birds it had a very worn appearance but at this moment, resting in the Khemetian sun, never looked happier as it was guarded by the larger blue bird and its brilliant plumage. "We have gone through life's trials together, and you were my steadfast companion in my joys and pain.

 

"Did you miss this place so much that you would be willing to be left behind?" you asked, remembering how your first attempt to escape had been thwarted. "Was it because you had found a new companion, that you couldn't bear to leave?" You grimaced, a sour expression twisted from a wry smile. If anyone heard you, surely they would have viewed you a madwoman. "I do not lay the blame with you. The blue bird was so inconsiderate, tripping me the way it had. But together you look so content; were you entranced by its beauty?

 

"Now you have made a family together," you said sorrowfully. Perhaps the aftereffects of the sleeping draught had not entirely worn off yet, you were speaking as if a wooden toy could reproduce. "Again I spare you of guilt, for wanting your own chance at happiness. You are my symbol of freedom, so does it not follow that you could be free to live this way, as you desire?

 

"It is my wish to live as you do," you whispered, closing your eyes. "You do not wrestle with your consciousness each hour, whether to entrust yourself to the blue bird or not. You simply...do."

 

Even now, the separation of time was indefinable, only the throbbing ache which persisted in and out of each dream and each progressive state of semi-wakefulness.

 

When you were called to again, the bombarding rays of the now risen sun was cut out in the shape of a dark silhouette disturbing its reach as she stood by your bedside. Beside her an elderly man; supposedly a royal physician. He was counting your pulse.

 

"The gods were most generous and willing to allow our introduction today," said the woman standing at the physician's side. "Your Highness. I am called Mana, High Priestess of the City of Archives." She bowed. Her bountiful necklaces and earrings clinked and shimmered as she turned to allow the sun to grace her; they reminded you of Merneith's. The difference being, this woman wore her jewelry with no care for whether it matched her garments. The multitudes of rough cut gems and coloured beads decorated her limbs and ears with no discernible pattern or style. The haphazard and lively presentation contrasted sharply with her solemnity.

 

"...ceremony of my own power. But the children of the city were adamant to assist me. How could I refuse?" Lingering effects of the sleeping draught caused you to miss the better part of her chattering spiel. Her smile was markedly different than any other you had beheld within the Kingdom of the Sun; a small upward curl of lips that was rare and true. Yet, you sensed that this woman did not smile often.

 

After scrutinizing her carefully from her headdress to her bare feet, you decided she was worth interrogating for information.

 

"How many of you have been bestowed with the honour of serving His Majesty as High Priest?" you inquired curiously once the examination was over and the two of you had been left alone, the healer having gone away to continue his usual duties. To your hidden relief, there wasn't a single tremor in your voice as you mentioned Pharaoh. "I only know of you, Ubaid and Merneith."

 

For the next collection of minutes stretching and warping as they passed, she enthusiastically spoke with you of the eight high priests, their duties and of their purposes. You learned that Merneith and Mana shared similar roles, being skilled healers known across the kingdom. How Merneith might have been here instead tending to you, had Mana not arrived early this morning was deeply unsettling, though you wondered if Pharaoh would ever have allowed that woman to stand over your bedside at your most vulnerable. She always looked like she wanted nothing more than to wrap those well polished talons around your neck and drain you of all your blood. You were only somewhat surprised to hear that Ubaid was a court veteran, a man with significant influence who had served the previous two rulers, and in the intermittent period before your betrothed’s coronation, considered for the throne. It was said that had Pharaoh Nekhtsethenes not stepped forward and claimed his birthright, no one would have opposed the notion.

 

You nearly spoke out of turn when Mana mentioned the name Mahaado, the greatest master of heka in Khemet besides Pharaoh himself. "What is heka?" You forced yourself to ask, not wanting to appear too eager.

 

It was a name you were certain you would never hear again; not in broad daylight with a clear mind. And yet she had spoken it, clearly, unmistakably. Was this Mahaado the same who haunted your dreams, and why had Pharaoh never spoken of him?

 

"Heka is...magic," Mana said haltingly, carefully considering and choosing her words. "And magic is all around us, in everything we do." Upon seeing the blank expression you sported, she sought to elaborate, "When Ra dies at the end of each day and rises again the next morning, he uses the magic of resurrection. When demons attack the mortal body with terrible illnesses, and they are repelled by the remedies we have perfected over the centuries, this is because of the magic of healing and rejuvenation. The food we eat, cooked in the magic of the flames are rendered edible when they were not before. Even the flames themselves, brought to life through the magic of..."

 

"How can those be due to the act of magical casting?" you interrupted. "Are they not merely phenomena sprung from nature?"

 

"These acts of nature are no different than magic, or what Khemetians call heka. We have discovered many methods to harness heka for our survival and comfort in the Black Lands, but even now we do not entirely understand the root of each art. As High Priestess of the Archives it is my chief duty to assist Pharaoh Nekhtsethenes in unlocking the secrets of the natural world. The chief duty of all of the high priests, in fact.

 

"Aha, I see you are still doubtful as to the existence of heka. Perhaps more examples are in order. Could you say with any certainty why the sunflowers turn their faces to follow Ra wherever he goes? Or why women are forced to bleed every so often as you are now, and yet we survive each time, when in most other situations our deaths are inevitable when we lose too much blood? Or how two people come to care for each other so deeply, forming a bond between their hearts which cannot be seen by the naked eye? Such as the bond between parent and child? The bond between friends, between lovers?"

 

"I do not have an answer," you admitted. It always galled you whenever your education came up short. Once, your calligraphy tutor had told you that you would forever be subjected to frustration, as it was an impossibility for a mortal to learn all there is to know in a single lifetime. "Even so. I cannot accept these events to be the work of magic, or heka as you call it. I do not have the means to find the truth, but this does not leave you in the right." And you would not be convinced otherwise.

 

Mana was astounded. "But what of your own people, the faiths you had devoted yourself to? Your gods, the Lightsworn. Your moon god Cynthios, whom you'd been betrothed to since girlhood. Surely as the Bride of the Moon you have enjoyed the privilege of your own magical boons, granted upon Genova by the divine beings which you worship? It is the same for Khemet, and the lands beyond."

 

"Those of the Holy Empire are not my people," you replied especially sharply. "...Not anymore," was your belated amendment. "I refuse to recant my previous assertions as well."

 

She was quietly reassessing you. "Mayhap your refusal to acknowledge your blood ties has anything to do with your impending union with His Majesty, if I may ask?"

 

Panic wedged in your chest at the reminder of grim future you were hurtling towards. Of everything which had transpired the night before. "No! I refuse to be his Queen," you squawked, uncaring of propriety, of your own hoarse voice and weak body. Immediately you began to roll yourself off the bed. Mana was by your side in an instant, keeping you from rising to your feet. Incensed, you swatted her hands away. "Release me. I have not suffered a grievous injury or illness of any sort. You cannot keep me confined to this room!"

 

"Your Highness, never have I intended to displeasure you so," Mana spoke as she struggled with you. "Please understand. The royal palace is in an uproar because of the gossip regarding your current condition...and Pharaoh's actions towards you not several hours ago. This frenzy can only be calmed by your oath to be His Majesty's faithful Queen. You need not wait until your coronation. Only speak to me now of your intentions to remain by Pharaoh's side, and the people's fears would be assuaged. I would ensure of it."

 

"I will have the truth. Has he put you up to this? Did he order you to wring my vows from my lips in his stead?" you sneered. "You want my vow of faithfulness so badly? My apologies. You won't have them, not now, not ever. I would rather he squeezed my neck until I could no longer breathe as he did the night before, and even then I would refuse him. That tyrant may have trapped my body, but he will never capture my heart!"

 

"Your words and actions alone would suffice," Mana argued. "I do not expect you to give him your sincere affection."

 

"What?" you croaked, your ineffectual flailing grinding to a halt in the wake of her plea.

 

"Heed my words, Bride of the Moon. I do not pretend His Majesty's...flaws are nonexistent. You are right, and so are the ministers of the court, and all of those who whisper about him in the darkness of night. Pharaoh Nekhtsethenes is a man with no blood, no heart. No mercy or compassion for any one individual."

 

Except, you had felt his heart beating beneath your cheek as he held you close. You had seen his crimson blood trailing down his chest, leaking from the cut which had been caused by the knife you had pointed at him.

 

"And despite knowing this, there is no denying that he is the last true son of Ra, the last hope of our kingdom. The only one left on this earth who can hear the voices of the gods, and lead the Black Lands away from the brink of destruction." From the way she spoke, it was as if she truly believed her own words. As if she was saying, that Pharaoh was capable of something as incredible as communicate with heavenly beings whom existed beyond human understanding. Utterly ridiculous.

 

"His Majesty has focused solely on expanding our borders and removing all treasonous elements during his reign. He ignored Ma'at, ignored one of his chief duties in maintaining the natural order to bring war to all those who opposed him...choosing to abstain from taking a wife and having an heir for so long. Surely there was a reason, a method to his madness. I myself had trouble believing this. If it were not for my teacher, I..." Mana shook her head. "His Majesty had been waiting for one such as you, with the power to save us, to appear before him. I know this now. Destiny had chosen you as the Bride of the Moon, and it was destiny which ordained you as the Queen of this kingdom."

 

"Destiny had nothing to do with my choice to offer myself as Tribute, in place of fifty women," you raged. If destiny had any say in all the years you have lived, you would have been poisoned by your stepmother by now. "How dare you insinuate my sacrifice as a part of some grand scheme. How dare you attempt to use this foolishness to justify submitting myself to Pharaoh's desires. At first I believed you to be a reasonable character, but this discussion has opened my eyes to your deceit. You are the same as the rest of them," you cried, remembering how your handmaidens, the ministers, everyone in the palace had simply regarded you as his betrothed, without question. Without any regards to you or your desires. It was a cruel stroke of irony, how you had traded away your title of Bride of the Moon, and all of its entrapments, with a similar set of gilded shackles.

 

A series of sharp knocks interrupted the heated argument. The pounding was so insistent, Mana reluctantly released you and headed for the doors.

 

"What is the matter?"

 

"High Priestess Mana, forgive my intrusion," replied a male voice from somewhere just beyond your sight, which sounded vaguely familiar to you but you could not place. "His Majesty has called all of the High Priesthood to the audience chamber."

 

"Again?" Mana gasped. "We had met only this morn. Why ever would he reassemble us so soon?"

 

"He did not say, High Priestess. Only that you proceed to the audience chamber with no further delay."

 

Sparing only a fleeting glance at you over her shoulder, she made to vacate the bed chamber.

 

You called after her. “Wait,” you said, seating yourself up against bedpost. You pushed your legs over the edge. With much trepidation you tested the strength of your legs, wary of the extent of the sleeping potion’s damage. You had no strength to support your weight, much less walk. You stumbled to the foot of the bed, anchoring your arms, one after the other to the bed to stay upright. Your lips were chapped as you formed the words, hoping to express your urgency with at least a shred of propriety. Though in that moment even desperation was fine. If this was your last chance to find a morsel of information on the man who had suddenly come and gone like midsummer rain. “This Mahaado...tell me...describe to me what he looks like.”

 

The look in her eye changed. Was it suspicion or intrigue? “Do you know him?” she asked you.

 

“I’m asking you what he looks like!” you inadvertently raised your voice, tone fringed with tears. Your chin was trembling. “I need to know,” you whispered.

 

The mere mention of his name was like coming up for a lungful of air after being held underwater for so long, like the sea wind which blew from the North and alleviated the searing heat of this hell world. He was release and dare you say salvation.

 

“Was he tall, and dark and...” Only as you searched for the words to describe him did you realize his likeness to Pharaoh, from his towering stature to how his high cheekbones drew your eyes to his lips when he spoke. “...And kind,” you finished, unable to distinguish him from Pharaoh in any other way. Perhaps it had been too many years since you’d last seen him, but you liked to think that these days, the image of him grew stronger everyday.

 

“Mahaado was — is,” Mana corrected, “my master. Do you know him?”

 

“Please,” you said, attempting poorly to descend the steps posing an obstacle to your wavering legs. “How do I find him? I need to see him.” You faltered on the last step, your knees folding under you and forcing you to catch yourself on all fours.

 

Mana was quick on her feet as she crossed the room to your side. “Your Highness, you must be more careful,” she chastised. 

 

You swatted away her arm reaching to raise you to your feet. “I need to meet him,” you repeated quietly, tears glazing your face over fresh skin. “It’s been many years since his envoy crashed on Delphini’s shores. It’s been many years but I remember him well. Many years I waited, longing to see him again. He spoke of this place as it were paradise on earth. Khemet is a vast place I understand but I thought I would meet him — he told me he was a merchant...”

 

“High priest Mahaado,” she said, “he’s His Majesty’s right hand. More so than Sennefer or Ubaid. They may appear at odds with each other at first glance but they are each other’s most trusted confidantes and advisors.”

 

“High priest...He was a high priest. A high priest...tell me, where must I go to meet him? Why have I not seen him if he’s such a close and trusted confidante to Pharaoh?”

 

“I see now,” she spoke lowly. “You’ve already lost your heart to him.”

 

“What?”

 

“That’s why you’re so against being wed to His Majesty is it not? Because you’re in love with my master.”

 

“How did you...”

 

The raps at the door grew more urgent and severe. “High Priestess, we cannot delay any longer. His Majesty cannot be kept waiting.”

 

Mana stood and helped you to your feet.

 

“But you mustn’t covet master Mahaado,” Mana spoke solemnly, seating you on the edge of the bed. “Youbelong to His Majesty and you’re to be his Queen and the mother of our people. He has chosen you and he has said he will take no one else. It is a truth irrevocable and his will is absolute. For your own sake your highness, I suggest you rid yourself of any lingering fondness and affection you harbour for master.”

 

“You haven’t answered my question!” you shouted after her, but in her absence, only the walls would listen.

 

…

 

You had known at once that the effects of the potion would only completely wear off by nightfall... during which Pharaoh would force the blasted potion past your lips once more. A sense of bleakness overcame you as you remembered what he'd said to you; indeed, this potion would indeed tie you to him until you were wed, until the end of your days if you allowed this to continue.

 

Except you had been given a morsel of hope, as if a starving beggar who had been offered a shred of bread. It was but a name, an elusive promise of his presence but it rejuvenated hope, fortifying your will. You would save yourself, and he would help you.

 

Pharaoh likely kept phials of the potion in his personal office. It was only logical that he, an accomplished alchemist such as yourself, would also keep the antidote in the same space. Even if it meant clawing your way across the stone floors, you would not rest until you'd helped yourself.

 

…

 

 

 

"Foster Sister of the Ruler of Two Lands, High Priestess Mana of the Archives," said Vizier Sennefer politely as the she entered through the audience chamber doors and took her designated place. "Be welcome among us."

 

"My boy, the assembly begins. Raise your head," said the old soldier sharply down at his son, who had been sewing his damaged papyrus sandal. During the initial rush inside the audience chamber, the straps had ripped free from their fastenings. "I would sew it myself, if I but knew how. But with the high priestess's arrival comes grander matters to concern ourselves with."

 

"We?" said the young man rhetorically, straightening. "I do not recall taking my vows and becoming a full fledged Armyman just yet, father."

 

 

"You might as well have, by choosing to accompany me today instead of performing your scribe duties. Regardless, I think you know well enough that there is little more to be gained by playing the role of faithful record keeper."

 

The solder and his son stood side by side in the upper balcony. From this vantage they could continue to trade whispers without disrupting the proceedings down below.

 

 

"Even with the heka of the greatest healers in the empire, His Majesty will not be able to bring his chosen bride out of this malaise, and his own supporters lay the blame at his feet. Surely you cannot mean to sit the rest of this assembly out with such terrible tidings over our heads?"

 

The old Army man spoke no falsehood, but Pharaoh Nekhtsethenes was calmly seated in his grand throne as if unaffected by the accusations of High Priest Ubaid, the old man inciting dissatisfaction in the crowds below.

 

 

"I say to that: the unborn child twas no more his than it was the gods," whispered his son in response. "Were it not that His Majesty had more cruelty to give than sense in his head, then he might yet have a child on the way still. Had he only cherished his wife more..."

 

The Vizier to His Majesty, Sennefer, boldly swept across the audience chamber floor towards the animated high priest with pomp and dry wit. Undaunted by the sellsword which intercepted him. He spoke of honor, of the games the gods would play. Of Ubaid's years of service getting the best of him; surely he plans to retire soon so his sons and grandsons could carry on his good works?

 

"Not his wife yet, not before the royal coronation in seven days," corrected his father, never taking his eyes off the drama playing out between two of the most influential men in the kingdom. "In spite of all evidence which points to their marriage. A sign of divine retribution for his sins, surely. You heard of the terrible wound she suffered, did you not? I've heard some men of the Inquisitors say they heard a booming voice before in the dead of night, as if Amun-Ra himself had punished His Majesty. The sea of blood which Pharaoh had been drowning was the warning."

 

Ubaid fumed beneath Vizier Sennefer's regal bearing as he performed an eloquent speech to the court at large in defence of Pharaoh. The High Priest of the Funerary Rites needed only one last push before he was over the edge. Did the Right Hand to the Throne dare to take that last step?

 

 

"A tale you've been no doubt happy to have spread. As for myself, I heard nothing but cries of heresy from the Inquisitors, heard of nothing but the pleads of the serving women who had been arrested for supposed treason and escorted away. The Bride of the Moon lost her child because she pointed a dagger at Pharaoh, and yet he has granted her clemency. His right hand men do not know how to uphold their duties."

 

"Tell me that is not the duty of a husband, to show his wife respect and understanding, to grant her protection? Surely you would not rather have him slay the only woman to ever have his attention? Surely you want stability to return to our kingdom?"

 

"My wants are of no concern. And they are not married yet, yes? High Priest Ubaid made a fair point in the assembly earlier. Pharaoh has murdered his own unborn child. A woman as docile as she would not have struck out against him, if it were not for his madness-" the son's argument died on his tongue by the commotion down below.

 

"By the bones of Osiris," the old soldier exclaimed, no longer whispering. His cry was drowned by the agitated murmurs of the rest of the assembled ministers. "The high priest has gone lost all semblance of reason. Ordering an attack on the Vizier, in the presence of His Majesty!"

 

 

...

 

"You should not have baited him," came the words from his lover. "It was unnecessary."

 

"It was not," disagreed Sennefer as he seated himself. "In fact, I would dare say it was crucial. Ubaid might well be the most cunning of the high priests, and is certainly the most charismatic. He needed a little shade thrown his way, to stoke his temper and remind all present of how vicious he can be beneath his pleasantries."

 

The two were seated in Sennefer's own private mansion within the royal palace. Significantly smaller than Pharaoh's own, the chambers were bedecked in the Vizier's family's sigil, with guards posted outside. Inside the pair sat beneath the open window, Sennefer bearing a goblet of wine to sip from as she tended to his injury in the light of the afternoon sun.

 

"You are lucky to have not lost your right hand," Mirina said disapprovingly.

 

"Ubaid owes me an uncut hand, and perhaps a healer with defter hands as well," grumbled Sennefer as he twitched at the needle threading through his wound. "Today is a day for changes."

 

Mirina giggled but didn't relent. "Perhaps now His Majesty would deign to look upon your martial abilities more favourably?"

 

He scoffed. It was very unlike his public persona. Mirina knew he had to maintain his debonair, unshakeable appearance at all times but she preferred him this way: a frustrated, belligerent man who resorted to the drink when faced with seemingly insurmountable obstacles. And he always found a way to overcome them in the end.

 

When he set aside his half finished goblet, Mirina gaped. "As I said, a day for changes," he explained, before growing more serious. "I have not been much of a guardian to you, have I?" he said calmly.

 

Mirina started, "My lord..."

 

"Mirina," he interrupted, "In private, I am Sennefer, as I always have been to you, since I discovered you beaten and half dead on the roadside. I have ill-used you these past ten days, and I fear I will continue to do so.  In the days to come I will still need your help...until my sister becomes the Queen of Khemet."

 

She hesitated. "I...I am terrified of what will happen, should our sin be discovered. Sennefer, you did not see what I have, when I entered the royal bedchambers of Pharaoh to attend to the princess as I always have. His Majesty was inconsolable."

 

The Vizier was unable to imagine such a sight. "Pharaoh was in tears?" Was the tyrant already so enamoured with the crown princess that he would be reduced to a mere mortal in the face of her suffering?

 

"No. If only that were so. He was bereaved with grief, yet as he held Her Highness's unresponsive form close to him he was in total control of himself. He wouldn't allow any of us close. If High Priestess Mana were not at hand to intervene on the royal physician's behalf, I do not know what horrors His Majesty would have visited upon us all." She shuddered. "If his fury had found a target..."

 

"This is only until my sister becomes Queen," Sennefer said comfortingly. "Then...I will do whatever you ask of me. Anything."

 

"Would we even survive to that point?" Mirina wondered morosely. "Pharaoh may not be aware as of now, but the gods see our actions for what they are. They cannot be fooled. Our time together on this earth may be coming to an end, the further we go along this path."

 

"It is the height of foolishness, to stop when we have come this far."

 

"The time we pass in this life is but in preparation for the next. Should the gods punish us here, and separate us, then what point is there to move on the Field of Reeds? I can't be apart from you for eternity. I couldn't bear it!"

 

He wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight. "I believe this has gone on for long enough," he said softly.

 

Mirina wasn't satisfied, but still she leaned into his touch, abandoning the needle and thread, unwilling to waste what little stolen time they had left together on this painful reoccurring disagreement. She knew he would not turn his back on his plans, but for the both of their sakes, she would try to convince him otherwise until it was too late.

 

…

 

 

There stood no sentinel behind the heavy doors leading out from the bedchamber to his study. In fact you were all alone. You would not search for trouble by testing boundaries, and even that required the strength to stand on your own two feet.

 

The chair from the corner of the bedchamber you had crawled to then used for support. Its legs let out an eerie creak each time it was slid across the floor tiles but drowned to obscurity against the shuffling footsteps of the guards and their noisy exchange of words you could now hear outside.

 

Pharaoh’s study undisturbed, filled from wall to wall with scrolls and an abundance of knowledge in sciences, alchemy and languages possessed a quality which inspired reverence. Even in your present state it struck you.

 

You pushed the chair before you to his writing desk; the shelves above it were lined with vials held in wooden frames and other apothecary jars.

 

In front of his desk, you released the chair. The floor swayed under you. Still you reached for the dark glassed phials just out of the reach of your straining fingertips. There were too many to tell from a distance which would be the portion and which its antidote, but you were confident you could know the sleeping potion by its scent, and then match the antidote by the concoction he kept together.

 

Just as your fingers only grazing the shelf’s top edge hooked on to it, and you almost considered it a small victory, your legs surrendered to the pressure pulling you to the ground and your weight slung against the shelf posed too much of a burden. The shelf’s suspension relented as the sandstone wall released the wooden slab in small bursts of crumbled sand. The slanting shelf abandoned its contents to slide across it and shatter and bleed all over the scrolls on Pharaoh’s desk.

 

Your slipping grip if you released it would have left you to be buried under its collapse so you braced yourself. As the first glass splintered against hard wood however, an arm wrapped your waist, pulling you back. The colossal crash and subsequent destruction of glass jars, vials, various clay artifacts and clockwork experiments you heard behind a palm pressed firmly against your ear, your other ear guarded by the chest you were held against.

 

The silence resonated, or rather in the absence of the ear-splitting noise which had passed in transience, time itself seemed to stand still.

 

You shivered in his touch.

 

Then the great doors leading to Pharaoh’s royal mansion burst forth. Royal guards with menacing expressions stormed the threshold and stopped just as suddenly as if clockwork drained of all wound-up energy at the sight of the man who stood at the centre of it. That is, seemingly at the centre of the commotion.

 

“Your Majesty!” the green eyed guard from the night before fell to one knee. “Apologies for the intrusion, we were not aware that you had returned from court.”

 

Pharaoh, still holding you to him, released a dismissive huff. “You fools. Then at the realization you should have immediately made yourselves scarce. And yet I still see you.”

 

He was in an especially foul mood, you remarked in thought.

 

The exit was a confused performance; stuttered apologies as the troop shuffled out behind closing doors.

 

As the room fell silent, the tyrant pulled away to look at you. “You look gaunt,” he said of your appearance. “Your health is of critical importance to the continuance of this dynasty. You cannot conceive if you’re ailing. You should not be moving about in your condition.”

 

“In my — my condition — your...majesty?” You wouldn’t dare look at him, though following the events of the night prior, he was particularly tame in his conduct towards you. You thought you would swallow your own tongue.

 

“I discovered you bleeding this morn. And from an important place.”

 

“I am told,” you spoke hardly above a whisper, afraid to disturb the air with your voice, afraid of offending him, “that it is needed to conceive.” If he inquired, you would be at a loss for the science behind the phenomenon; it was all they had taught you. The mere possibility of being tied down and forced to produce for him flesh and blood nauseated you but out of fear you spoke. You responded however you thought would appease him the most, gathering together what little thought actually passed your mind.

 

“Have you not accumulated enough transgressions against me last night to satisfy your recklessness that at the first moment of wakefulness you seek to defy my punishment?” He released his grip on you for a moment and you began to tumble to the floor. He held you up again, closer this time.

 

It was a warning. A series of whimpers burbled behind swallowed lips.

 

“Silence!” he demanded. It could only worsen the severity of your convulsions.

 

“Se-Seto, have mercy,” you pleaded, hoping his name would inspire some leniency.

 

“Can my name still come from the woman who attempted to paralyze and murder me in this very chamber only last night?” he thundered, and you shook violently, squeezing closed your eyes. His tone then changed to one of taunting. “What? Cat got your tongue? I was hoping for more bite from the princess bold enough to drive a dagger through my throat.

 

“I’ve seen fools on the battlefield my betrothed, I’ve seen cowards, and I’ve seen men so brave that they were also fools. You are the latter and yet your defiance excites me. Your wild courage I will train and hone to serve me as my queen.” He rung a stray tendril of hair behind your ear and smoothed your unbrushed hair as he studied your expression.

 

A ghost of a smirk graced his face, then it spread, one edge of his lip crooking upwards madly. “The gods must be mad,” he said, a low chuckle brewing in his chest. It escalated to a maniacal laughter, resounding endlessly, dancing against the walls. “But having seen you, been with you, I can’t find any other woman desirable. It can only be you.”

 

“Your Majesty...” you whispered, petrified.

 

“You lure men in with your innocence,” Pharaoh said, “you bewitch them and then you cut them down.”

 

You vehemently denied his accusations, shaking your head. “Your Majesty I have never...”

 

He released a cackle which made your blood run cold. “Well I intend to tame you, and I shall make you mine. I shall make you blind to anything that is not me; a queen who shall only serve her king, loyally, faithfully.”

 

Your stomach turned.

 

“I will bestow upon you the greatest honour a woman in this kingdom will know. Prepare yourself, seven days from this day, we will be joined together before god, and you will become my wife, eternally.”

 

You thought you would vomit, there was something so inherently morbid to the reality.

 

You began to cry, hysterically. “Will you not kill me instead? Allow me to atone for the sin of shaking the blood of a son of Ra — ”

 

“You will become a daughter of Ra,” he replied with a chilling calm. “You will denounce your lineage and become a daughter of my household and we shall be wed — ”

 

“No!” you screamed, thrashing in his arms. “No I will not have it! I’d rather you strangle my neck as you attempted twice. Finish it. Finish what you intended!”

 

Once again, you were at an impasse. Even as he promised you riches beyond your wildest imagination, comforts which thousands of women could only dream of during slow afternoons as they ground corn or wove linen. Even then, you would not submit to him. You cried for your own swift end.

 

You would never want him.

 

"Silence!" he roared a second time. Your struggles grew fiercer. Overcome with fury he abruptly pulled back a single arm, poised as if to strike, the muscles in his forearm taut, his blue eyes alight with his anger. Immediately you ceased all movement and hunched into yourself, squeezed your eyes shut, bracing yourself for the terrible impact upon your fragile bones.

 

Rather than your face, it was the small tray of empty ink bottles and writing implements which had been stacked close to the edge of Pharaoh's writing table that met their sudden end, swept off the polished wooden surface and joining the piles of debris that littered his otherwise pristine floors. The unexpected destruction of his own property only reinforced within your mind how he was akin to an unstoppable force of nature, a torrent that cared not for the casualties it caused.

 

For a short breath, in the wake of his action, neither of you said a word. The disposed ink puddled at your bare feet.

 

"It can only be you," he repeated harshly. "You. A thief who speaks only falsehoods, who would sully an oath made in good faith. A cowardly, indecisive infant dwelling within the body of an adult who cannot comprehend what it is they truly want. And a traitor to a nation who would go so far as to poison and kill their sole benefactor." The same hand that had shoved the bottles and writing tools to the floor stroked your hip. You flinched. "Each of these qualities I abhor, so the gods saw fit to instil all of these into a single woman. The woman I chose, no less. Still, it can only be you."

 

You were caught unawares as he bodily lifted you off your trembling legs and carried you onto the edge of his bed, taking care to settle you comfortably. "Pharaoh, what is..." you gasped as he pressed your back onto the soft linen sheets. Shocked, your gaze could only fix upon the intricate carvings of a group of humans with animal heads feasting merrily together in a panorama upon the high ceilings. It was the sensation of callused palms and nimble fingers slowly caressing up and down your exposed stomach and thighs that catapulted you out of your shock. "No, stop this, I beg of you," were the words you managed to say. Your own limbs disobeyed your frantic commands, seduced into compliance by the ministrations of the Wise Serpent. You could not understand why your errant thoughts suddenly reminded you of this particular title of his.

 

"High Priestess Mana suggested a thorough massage to ease the pains your current condition brings you. The royal physician concurred. How could I ignore such an adamant recommendation from two of the most vaunted healers in my realm?"

 

Your hips began to rock in time with his caresses, you were unable to help yourself; the pains lifted. He let out a deep, throaty laugh, different from the one he had unleashed earlier. Less mad, more predatory, but equally smug. Victorious. 

 

"Stop," you tried again. "I told you. I do not want this...I do not want you."

 

"I heard what you said before. But we are expected to consummate our marriage on the night of your coronation, and by the gods we will. Oh, you need not worry that I will lay a hand on you before then." He bent over you, pressing his lips to your ear. "But know this, princess, for I make you a promise I will not forsake. When I want you, you will know it. And when I take you...when I take you, you will want it as much as I."

 

It was not unlike being trapped within the vice grip of a snake. Growing tighter and tighter. You hated snakes.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let us know what you think!
> 
> There’s not too much information here about the mechanics of menstruation and what was used in the ancient world as substitutes for sanitation products. If you’re interested in the nitty gritty let us know and we’ll look to introducing more about that as we go forward. :D


	11. With the Stars as Your Witness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Est: We finally reached the wedding, you guys! Thank you for sticking with us until now, and we hope you continue to enjoy this strange journey with us.
> 
> *puts on party hat*

 

 

“No floating lanterns?” you asked him matching what was to him a leisurely stride.

 

“Happy occasions are often celebrated with feasts...not sending off burning paper structures into the heavens — princess you need not walk me to the shores,” Mahaado replied.

 

You allowed for a moment to understand his explanation, still keeping silently by his side. Then you reached out for him, halting him and pulling him back. “I want to know that I’ll see you again.”

 

“People who are meant to meet again inevitably always will,” he said.

 

“By the will of your gods?” You left no skepticism to the imagination.

 

“Nature too conspires.”

 

“...And so you still won’t take me away with you.”

 

“To take a foreign princess from her homeland, that would be breaking a handful of laws, and it would only be the beginning. Wars would be waged in your wake.”

 

“Believe me there would be no misery or tears in my absence...only happiness.”

 

“I don’t pretend to understand you but you surely cannot believe that a people would celebrate the loss of their own monarch.”

 

You were blunt this time. You wanted no regrets. “Take me with you!”

 

“My country is a paradise but our king has the head of a jackal. You would curse me if I did,” Mahaado said with a light laugh, acknowledging one of his passing men with a nod of his head.

 

You had reached the shores by now, his envoy waiting. As it had then, you could feel your eyes wet with tears. You held on to him, slowly wrapping him in your embrace.

 

“What if I tell you I will send again for you, would that do?”

 

“I may not be here then.” If he had, you would not have had to employ all the treachery that you did...but he never did.

 

Smiling at what he likely saw as childish defiance, Mahaado responded gently, “When next we meet, I will have much more to impart to you. To tide you over until then, take this, a symbol of our bond which had been borne from happenstance, and despite our distance will continue to fly.”

 

“What is this?” You did not understand it. The object Mahaado had placed into your palm was a bird, a yellow canary carved from wood with a small gold key. What purpose did this serve?

 

“It is called a toy, and it is very popular with the children of my homeland,” Mahaado explained, demonstrating.

 

“I am not a child,” you refuted automatically, though your gaze did not waver from the leaping canary. How intriguing the teeny bird was, how whimsical! Suddenly it occurred to you that you needed to return the favour, and give him a memento of yourself to remember by. And you knew just what to give; a portrait of you.

 

"Are you certain it is permissible to take this portrait?" Mahaado asked hesitantly, ever the walking regulation at the oddest of junctures. You assumed this was a clash of cultures at play. You assumed correctly. "It is tradition in my kingdom for the men to hold onto a portrait of their beloved until they are wedded. And even if I were to keep this hidden, I need not have an eye for art to see how...exquisite this is. It must cost a fortune."

 

You were very proud of how this portrait had come about; the court artist had outdone himself, and the result was this very accurate rendition of your visage in a timeless moment. "With this portrait you would have no difficulties recalling my face. Memory loss is an adversary that doddering old men must overcome, is it not?"

 

"I am neither doddering, or old," Mahaado said dryly. "Very well. I shall accept this gift, in the spirit it was given."

 

Once more, you threw yourself into his embrace, unwilling to part. Even now you could feel his warmth, his strong arms around you, a hand wiping at the tears. "Mahaado, you must promise to send for me," you beseeched, tilting your chin to stare him in the eyes.

 

Your heart leapt into your throat. To your violent shock, it was not Mahaado but an otherworldly canine which returned your gaze. A jackal, you recognized it from Mahaado's sketches.

 

The king with the head of a jackal, a voice cried within you just before you were slammed bodily onto the hard ground. Two powerful human hands encircled your throat, and you could no longer breathe. The vermillion sails and the bright Delphinian sun melted away into inky blackness; or was it your own vision failing you in this moment as the bloodless king squeezed the life out of you mercilessly?

 

You were so deep within the thrall of the sleeping potion, you could not hear the worried male voice just beyond the well of unconsciousness calling your name, nor could you see the desperation in the blue eyes trained upon your suffering expression. Nearly every night, for the past few nights in a row, you experienced death in your dreams with no hope of escape.

 

…

 

The days melded together. It seemed the sun would never set. When had you last seen the sun not at its zenith, somewhere low in the sky melting into obscurity? You couldn’t remember. It was as if he was intent on having you witness ceaselessly the glory of his god, Ra, without respite.

 

Every waking moment you spent confined to his royal quarters, groomed again as if a prized cow in preparation for your nuptials. You had stopped listening to your handmaids and priests, they were so tedious; you could predict before the words had left their lips. Nuptials, union, nuptials! It was all they could vomit.

 

It was a rare occasion to see Pharaoh, and never a pleasant one. Though each time you did, he never forgot to remind you of your long life together. It always ended in violent disagreements. Right now was one such occasion.

 

You had heard him in his study. He crossed the bed chamber in search of something, ignoring your presence as he often did as of late.

 

You sat on the edge of your bed, leaned against the poster near its foot. You could summon no more strength these days than to hold your draining weight against one object or another. “Are you proud of yourself king, for poisoning a girl who has no where to run, night after night, having cut off her legs?”

 

“I hear you broke a maid’s arm in your latest bout of petulance,” he replied, climbing the steps to your side.

 

“Is gathering what’s left of my handicapped faculties into an expression of free will considered petulance now?”

 

“Left to your devises, your expression of free will would be a dagger at my throat, or inside it.”

 

“A king who holds his subjects in fear is not a king, he is a tyrant. There is nothing noble about you and your people don’t follow you from respect.”

 

“What would you know of my people?” he thundered, gripping the tall poster of the bed so tightly that you were convinced it would crack. But he would dignify your accusation no further. “Stop acting like a mad woman and pull yourself together. What was the last time you brushed your hair? I’m informed by Asim that you threw the wash basin across the room this morning and hit the young maid who tried to help. Don’t misdirect this childish war you’ve waged against me at the servants,”

 

“What would you care about handmaidens, you’ve made most of mine disappear, the ones you haven’t burned.”

 

“You certainly have a lot of growing up to do.”

 

You laughed in despair. “I wish you would just kill me.”

 

“That too, would be gratifying your will.”

 

“What — do you see in me that you want to have so badly? When I look in a mirror, I hardly need anymore incentive than the reflection to kill myself. It would seem whatever you do see is a figment of your imagination. You see, no one since I was born has ever wanted me, all except the throne. It follows me like a divine plague.”

 

“Are you equaling me to a plague?” he asked, indignant.

 

“No, I’m saying I was born without the liberty to live as I please nor the fortune to die.”

 

“A long life is a great fortune and nothing to be scorned. What you are is neither, only blind to see that I am offering you a life of your own to do as you please.” He descended the steps, leaving. “I’ve only asked for a child and for you to stay by my side but you say it is too great a burden.”

 

“Or maybe I understand too well what it means to be a ruler’s wife. I’ve heard of ones that have lost their minds and slain their own blood and seen ones who go to war and just...never come back, like my father.”

 

You had begun speaking informally to him; the young emperor was undecided if he was to find comfort in this or be unsettled. Were you coming undone?

 

He turned to you from the centre of the room. “Are you afraid I wouldn’t return to you?”

 

“Having witnessed you, it is abundantly clear to me you are more likely to do the former.”

 

“I’m not repeating well rehearsed lines with you day after day.”

 

“And yet here we are once again.”

 

“Are you determined to make an enemy of me each time we cross paths?” he asked, marching back to tower over you, his voice increasing in volume with each word that passed his lips.

 

“Have we ever been friends?”

 

“That night by the lotus — never mind.” He heaved a laborious sigh. “You’ve turned away your handmaidens, Mana, and you’re intent on antagonizing me. Lose your mind here alone for all I care. You’ve grown to be insufferable.” It was only through the most stringent effort of will that he stopped his rage from boiling over.

 

You did not think, staggering to your feet. You simply reacted, your hand a shooting whip. Never had you slapped a man, never had you laid a hand on a man until your arrival in the city of Sepfuruna. Encounters with him was always a first; he was always a first.

 

You knew intuitively that that you would enjoy immensely the sting of your palm on his hard cheek.

 

Alas, there would be no satisfaction, for the blow was never allowed to fall. With the sharply honed senses only a warrior would possess, Pharaoh reached out and caught your wrist. Strong fingers wound tight about your flesh.

 

Your head jerked up. A little tremor went through you. The burning of his blue eyes should have served as a warning. He was not calm. His jaw was knotted and clenched. He was furious, and you were stunned to realize that never before had you seen him truly angry, in broad daylight. For all of his chaotic whims he had always struck you as a man who was ever in command of himself, ever and always. Yet now the very flames of his sun god seemed alive in his eyes. You felt as you’d been scorched to your very soul.

 

“Then go,” you shrieked up at him still in his arrest, your ire somehow carrying you through without falter in spite of your subconscious desire to flinch away. You struggled to pull your hand away. “I demand you to leave this instant. Leave me alone. I do not want you by my side, ever!”

 

For a frightening moment he looked as if he would explode, but then his expression melted away to one of cool remoteness. His gaze froze over. His lips barely moved as he spoke. “You need not worry, my queen, I shall make my way this very instant.”

 

“Gods, but you are arrogant!” you flung at his retreating back, falling back on the bed. “You are vile! Heartless! Disgusting!”

 

The pity was in that he still would not put you out of your misery. He would not at the very least dignify you with his attention. What was more tormenting still was perhaps the unrelenting voice in your mind reminding you that you could have loved him. And you feared that some part of you already had; this was justified by your constant craving to pick a fight for his attention. No, but you couldn’t bear to see him, him in all his regalia. You wished you could burn his crown.

 

A squall blustered inside of you. You didn’t understand the emotions tearing you, at your very heart. You needed time to find your composure anew and think. But it was not to be; no sooner had your tormentor swept from the chambers did Asim, the only handmaiden that remained of your original retinue, shuffled inside. She was also one of the last few pieces of driftwood which you still clung, in this whirlpool of chaos Pharaoh kept you drowning.

 

She stepped closer, bending to pick up the hairbrush and torn hair ribbons which had been discarded hastily, carelessly in the heat of your altercation with the handmaidens that morning. Her eyes studied you. “Your Highness. May I ask what troubles you?”

 

It was difficult to pretend that nothing was amiss, when you were quite certain that everything was amiss. So you did not bother trying to hide your crumpled expression.

 

Asim hummed. “Forgive my impertinence... I’ve not spent as many years on this earth to not be able to read what lies in a woman’s heart, and a man’s eyes.” She turned away and carefully placed the ribbons and the hairbrush on the vanity. “His Majesty did not look pleased, nor do you; not now, and not these past five days. Whatever troubles you, I am ever prepared to listen.”

 

Not until the words had long passed your lips did you realize what you had done. You had rejected him, again. Now it was much too late to retract them. A voice deep within you urged you to go after him, the man who would be your husband tomorrow, to stop him. Still another voice argued against it. How could you? How could you face him, after all that had transpired between you both? It was your pride and your fear which had spurred your angry demand. Yet there was no swell of satisfaction in the knowledge. It was this same pride that kept you from running after him now...

 

No, it was Pharaoh’s fault why you could not run after him. It was he, who had punished you with the paralyzing potion each day, why you could barely take several steps away from the bed, why even the stars that comforted you at night had vanished. It was he, who had made you so wretched. You would not beg or plead for his forgiveness. You cared not if he left to his beloved battlefields and you never saw him again! You resolved to tell Asim the truth. You were sure the servants and guards would all learn soon enough from listening to the gossip.

 

You took a deep, fortifying breath. “I sent him away from my side.”

 

To her due credit, Asim restrained her surprise at this admission, and the implication of those words. You, a woman whose status was that of a concubine, had sent His Majesty away from his own royal mansion? Truly, nothing has ever been the same since your appearance at court, weeks ago. She suspected there was more to it than this, but this was an inquiry to be made at a later time. “When will His Majesty return? He has yet to tend to your aches, and administer your medicine for your condition. This must be done before you are formally adopted into His Majesty’s family this eve.”

 

“He will not,” you said curtly. “I told him to leave my side forever.”

 

“What...” Asim shook her head. “Tell me, princess, that you did not drive him away completely.” The censure in the older woman’s voice startled you. “I pray you, beg you, do not enter this union with His Majesty apart from him. For the both of your sakes.”

 

A fresh surge of resentment coursed through you. “Am I not allowed to feel fear, to grieve?” you shouted. “While you did not witness it, I tell you now that he silenced my tears with his bare hands. He strangled me!” You reached up and touched your own throat for emphasis. “And within my mind I had only seen him as my lo-lover, but no more. No more! I care not for his feelings if he refuses to hear mine.” You sobbed. “I have no choice but to be wedded to him tomorrow because he has commanded it. But I will not submit to him my heart because he demands it! He will learn that there are things on this earth that he could never have.” The man whom you could have grown to love wholeheartedly...was dead. You grieved his loss. And in this time of mourning you had halfway convinced yourself he never existed. Happiness was impossible to have, with the immoral, unrelenting tyrant at your side. So you would be better off cutting him away at every opportunity.

 

You were inconsolable. Asim decided then, a retreat was in order. The way you were now, you would not hear a single word of advice, no matter how well meaning.

 

…

 

You had mostly recovered your wits by that eve, when Pharaoh's handmaids came to collect you. The emperor himself was nowhere to be found, just as you'd demanded of him before...or perhaps he was simply fed up with your behaviour.

 

Reverently you were led through a series of twists and turns, and escorted inside a windowless, echoing chamber. For a short while you were sure this would become your new prison, it had every appearance of a dungeon...until a group of musicians and dancers abruptly glided inside the chamber after you in their colourful livery. They greeted you with much cheer before arranging themselves at one end of the chamber. You barely registered the maid’s proffered explanation; something to do with how the performance had been choreographed to emulate the creation of life.

 

The Hall of Rebirths, you retained of her speech was the name, was suffocated with bodies and lit by a multitude of torches and candles and lamps. The air was thick; the absence of the sun did little to alleviate the illusion of it.

 

You cared little for the traditions of his people, the music and dance, the thick incense which burned obnoxiously in your peripheral. Although you became slightly wary when the handmaiden bade you to lie upon a pile of cushions, arranged in the centre of a painted circle that nearly spanned the entire half of the stone chamber floors. This was much to similar to how Ife’s execution had played out, and thus you began to squirm.

 

The handmaiden who’d explained how this adoption ritual worked tried to assuage your apparent discomfort. “Once the incense has burned out, you will no longer be bound to your previous family, and by the gods decree you will be a daughter of Ra, a sister to His Majesty,” she said.

 

“Sister?” You whipped your head around to look at her. Were you not Pharaoh's betrothed? Why ever would he adopt you as his stepsister?

 

Another handmaiden entered your line of sight, carrying a tray. You immediately recognized the jewelled goblet she presented to you, and with quiet fury you accepted the drink. For the briefest instant, you contemplated tossing the goblet aside.

 

The handmaiden who had delivered to you the damnable goblet seemed to read your intentions. “Your Highness, it was Pharaoh himself who had this especially prepared for you. It is his wish for you to get as much rest as possible, so...”

 

“The moment you wake, the adoption ceremony will have long ended,” interjected the first handmaid.

 

“How considerate of him,” you said from between a clenched jaw.

 

Stay still and quiet like a doll placed on a shelf while these savages danced around you in the name of some absurd ritual. They had no patience for your petulant resistance, that’s what this meant didn’t it? Your anger burned brighter. These women were merely that tyrant’s mindless, possessed mouthpieces; they would follow the emperor’s directives and nothing else.

 

Still, you had no patience to endure sober this farce so you would indulge them, drinking the sleeping potion diluted with wine. You would obey, but there was nothing preventing you from throwing the goblet to the far corner.

 

…

 

You were administered the antidote on the day of the wedding, and your coronation. For the first time since the night you failed to escape, strength flushed through your veins and the fog clouding your mind was completely lifted. Your perception of the desert world around you was sharpened to the point you were utterly focused upon the dryness of the air, the heat rising from the stone, the dulled roar of the river which sustained the empire.

 

‘ _When I want you, you will know it. And when I take you, you will want it as much as I.’_

 

That wicked promise had been all the more dire, for the very softness of his tone. His words pricked you deeply, embedding itself as a small thorn would prick skin, and you despised yourself for your weakness, for the tumult raging within you which was impossible to deny.

 

You were desperate for more time to consider, to adapt, to come to terms with all that this marriage would entail. Sharing not only a home...but a child. For yours was a fear that transcended all else. A fear unlike any you had ever known. Pharaoh didn't know of the alarm that raced through you at the thought of what might happen if you tried to have a child together...he couldn't know! How could any man truly know? A man did not carry a babe beneath his heart, nourish it's body with his, protect it and shelter it from the world those many months. Lady Agatha, your nursemaid, had told you many and more stories of her own experience. Of how it felt growing within her, how it felt when it kicked or rolled, so tiny and yet so alive... The thought of your own child terrified you.

 

This wedding would take place, whether you willed it or not...whether you wanted it or not. Thus you had convinced yourself during these last seven days of your freedom it was better this way. Better that Pharaoh would despise you. Better to hold yourself aloof...keep him at a distance.

 

So when the group of twittering handmaidens you did not recognize was allowed into the royal mansion to help you bathe and dress, your lips parted, ready to dismiss them. You wanted this time to yourself, preferring to to see to the tasks alone with your thoughts, but in your periphery Asim gave a tiny shake of her head. You stood quietly while they dressed you.

 

Your dress was cerulean silk, as long as the Nile, and as blue as the Nile. From the valley of your chest, the golden wings of Ra opened to your shoulders, every inch an embroidery of gold thread and gemstones. Then again from your waist three pairs of golden wings layered downwards, all embellished in gold spun thread and precious stones. As was the rest of the dress, the silk speckled in gold embroidery.

 

You wondered if the heartless Pharaoh had planned to marry. Was this dress woven for some elusive ideal or was it always for you? Dresses like these were not brought to life overnight. He must have employed an army. Silk this fine was not spun away from the East, and merchant ships did not fly.

 

Your hair was brushed and the loose waves oiled in lotus; the ebony locks caught the sun in glints of amber.

 

They handed you long gold earrings, a glittering sun, a scarab and open wings set in clear gemstones dangled on each. It was as heavy as the gold leaf diadem.

 

Each step forwards was a reminder that you were not marching towards imprisonment; the shackles had already been placed, and they harrowed sore ankles. There was no resistance in you to give, only daydreams.

 

You sat watching the burning ball sink lower and lower into the land beyond the river at the edge of the bed; in your distance consciousness a comb running through your hair. Some part of you cradled the urge to reach out for it and snap it in two but you had whisked yourself to some far away place. Granted, it was easier when your senses were compromised.

 

Then all of a sudden everyone fell away, the handmaiden sorting through imaginary knots in your hair and the ones surrounding you as if initiating you into a coven. They all fell away, bowed as they shuffled back, away and away, slowly down the steps.

 

You turned to acknowledge the imposing figure in your peripheral.

 

He wore gold armour under his long blue cloak; wings of Ra crossing his torso, each gilded feather pronounced and carved with meticulous precision only a practiced hand could produce. A collar carved of the same gold sat upon his chest, a vibrant sapphire at its centre; his wrists stacked with golden bands so high they disappeared into the sleeve of his cloak. The tunic below was white, the centre sash gold and you caught a glimpse of golden sandals in your distraction as your eyes begged for one more moment of rest upon his face...then another and another.

 

His eyes ever mesmerizing, and even in all his regalia, handsome. Striking and arresting he certainly was without discrimination for the time of day but you had always fancied him the most at his simplest. Yet as the last burning sunshine poured in waves from the window, swimming around him, turning like spinning ink in water in blue eyes, the man you had idealized once, seemed almost palpable.

 

You watched those blue eyes trace you, etching into every detail.

 

“Does this please you...king?” you asked, dull but defiant, looking away.

 

“Nothing which does not survives in my realm.”

 

“Oh...how then I wish I didn’t.”

 

“Enough,” he warned, voice like a snapping branch at its conclusion.

 

You didn’t care for the pawns in the room. He would pick them off as he saw fit. It was likely why you had stopped memorizing them. If you said too much...if they heard too much, they would simply cease from existence.

 

“I’m not one for large crowds or formalities,” you said after some silence, more civil this time. In the meanwhile you had let him ravish you with his eyes.

 

“I don’t see you finding interest in much,” he said, “if anything.”

 

“...I wonder will they accept me...as their queen?”

 

“Unless they have expectations more stringent than their own king.”

 

You nodded, believing those words, while asking yourself why you crawled back to him for affirmation at times like these.

 

…

 

There was the sound of tinkling finger zills, mimicking water pouring ceaselessly onto stone. Lutes, lyres, and harps sounded, melding with that of the flowing Nile river. A nye wailed. The goatskin drums began a slow, unobtrusive beat, emulating that of a human heart. Then a chorus of men began to chant softly as they marched the aisle to the dais. Flower petals were strewn by girls adorned in vividly hued glass jewellery and vibrant beads strung in intricate designs, standing on each side of the aisle. Anticipation filled the great audience chamber from corner to corner. The sun, Ra, was sinking inch by inch beyond the horizon; the ceremony needed to be completed before the divine father’s life was extinguished and the world was once more plunged into shadow.

 

You and Pharaoh were seated on gold tasseled cushions at the foot of the dais. As if under the thrall of an ancient spell, your eyes were drawn to his form. Following his lead you rose to your feet and four high priests beckoned the two of you up the limestone steps to where two great gold-winged thrones awaited. Your heart caught with a painful twinge as you turned to face the crowds, thoughts alive in remembrance of a simpler time when you had dreamed of standing on this very precipice of marriage. In your flights of fancy you were certain you would spend the rest of your days with the man you were about to wed.

 

The golden thrones, primarily wood, depicted elaborate court scenes and embellished wings, delicately painted with turquoise, Khemetian red and white and carved with the sacred scriptures. Gems polished to a high sheen were encrusted on to the sides and back, as well as the sides of the arms; golden heads of lion like beasts ornamenting the ends of arm rests. Royal banner men held aloft the escutcheon which was especially sewn for this occasion; the cloth of the state, of upper and lower Khemet held aloft alongside. Towering above the thrones from behind was a great gilded sun, each curving ray carved as if the spanning wings of Ra, set on its own pedestal. 

 

Two officials appointed to assist the high priests, each removed the glowing gold and white cloaks draped over Pharaoh’s shoulders, and your own. You again followed Pharaoh’s guide as he assumed his seat on his throne, flanked by the fan bearers.

 

Your senses were under ambush, it was passing you like a dream, all a haze and the details blurring to background noise.

 

Your eyes only left him to be fixed on the sea of well-wishers, gaze flickering across the audience chamber; your insides welled with anxiety. Tens and hundreds of eyes gazed back expectantly. Each foreign guest in the milling crowds boasted a special head dress to represent his or her country of origin; coronets and distinctive head dresses divided the natives, speaking of their descent of either upper or lower Khemet. The nuances in them you were taught spoke of their ranks and titles, and they would, had they not all before your eyes become a swirling smudge of colour.

 

Even still, the emblems of your own heritage could not elude you in obscurity. Did your eyes deceive you, or were there several rich merchants whom bore the coronet and colours of the Holy Empire of Delphini? You were an undecided cross of indignant and startled. Had they come to see that the deed was done? How thorough.

 

 

The royal cup bearer brought in the orange-blossom-scented oil, dipped his fingers in the stone cup and anointed you in the centre of your forehead; his fingers were as cold as death upon your skin as he dressed your forehead with a greasiness. The flute wailed its nuance somewhere to the left, keeping rhythm with the thumps of the goat skin drums in a hypnotic dance. Attendants waved sheaves of wheat to the rhythm. Fan bearers stirred the heavily-incensed air, it burned with a citrus sting your throat dry as a bone.

 

There was a sense of surrealism, of disbelief, as one after another, the sights, the scents and the sounds which would define the memories of your wedding day which has been long elusive and a figment of daydream, sorted themselves into your thoughts; one after another sorting themselves into the past, pushing you ceaselessly without respite to your future.

 

The royal regalia bearers marched uniformly down the aisle towards you. They individually carried an insignia on top of blue and white silk cushions. On one cushion was the great double crowns for the king, and on the other cushion, the double crowns meant for the queen, for you. Another regalia bearer marched down the aisle with small symbolic whips. The final regalia bearers carried the crook; a small, striped and crooked stick. It was undisputedly across the lands, a defining symbol of the Black Lands.

 

Moments before the ceremony had begun you had been sought out in your chambers by Asim. She hadinformed you that the double crowns were so named as they were two separate crowns fashioned to fit as one. You were warned the coronation crowns and coronation emblems were purposely crafted with much heaviness to emphasize the responsibility and trust that the wearer must carry.

 

“With the double crowns atop your head,” she had said, in that very brief moment in time you had been left alone together, the other handmaidens long since departed to complete other tasks, “there wouldn’t be a sight more beauteous than you, Your Highness.” You had possessed every thought to object, but the matronly woman’s fingertips came to a rest on your lips. “Hush, princess, do not say it.” Her eyes slid sideways, indicating the green eyed Inquisitor who had taken up post. “I do not mean to be cruel, but the day has come, and we must all accept reality. Your previous existence is forever gone, and any hope to be free of Pharaoh with it. He is your home now, as you are his. So you must be strong.”

 

Sudden, startling tears had sprung to your eyes, tears you could not withhold. Asim hands gently clasped your trembling forearms, squeezed, and then receded. She did not back away however; she had stayed, shielding your face from the sentinel and whomever until you had recovered.

 

Now as the regalia bearers formed two lines, one on each side of the thrones, you were dry of eye. You held your head high, your spine straight and stiff as an arrow pointing skyward. You were only half aware of the high priests as they plucked the crooks and whips from the cushions and in turn, handed the symbols to the two if you. As previously instructed you held the whip and crook in the assigned hand and crossed your arms over your chest. Finding yourself impelled by an urge you could not overcome, your gaze was once more drawn inevitably to the man you were being bound to, the man who sat at the edge of your fingertips.

 

This time your eyes collided. His features might have been etched from stone; they revealed naught of his thoughts, neither pleasure nor the lack of. His only reaction to your perusal was the veriest lift of his dark brows, a silent signal to face forwards.

 

Then the sweetly melodious music came to a sudden halt. As one, everyone in the room bowed down, prostrating themselves on the ground with face touching the stone, knees bent, foreheads all kissing stone. The high priests reverently stepped forward to place the royal crowns atop your heads in one harmonious motion, chanting in a soft mutter the ritual incantation.

 

In some far distant corner of your mind you had the sensation that the very instant the double crown touched your head, your carefully maintained composure would shatter, and your body would follow. Your fingers gripped the crook and whip tighter, desperate to tie together your imploding self possession, heart slowing to a stop.

 

...The double crown was heavier than you could have ever imagined.

 

The music began anew, faster this time, it kept pace well with your thrumming heart. The chorus of singers continued chanting to the melody; why did their soft voices drown you? Somewhere in the balconies above, you heard Vizier Sennefer announce the birth of the new divine couple as the high priests bade the two of you to rise from the thrones.

 

A fleeting panic engulfed you, for a moment parting through the passiveness beginning to lull you. Your imminent fate was upon you and you were to be tethered to him. Old thoughts of darting from his side and fleeing this chamber surfaced in your mind you would not lie though they seemed childish as you disposed yourself to accept your place beside him. Not all lives ended with the greatest of loves, the unfortunate lived on and on, forced to shoulder marriages of mediocrity, and others still which were only great when looked on by the outside. As today would prove, you were not the exception. It was sobering, the thought of a future not exactly as you had wanted.

 

You strained your concentration to remember your memorized vows.

 

He stepped closer to you. With what persuasion did you lift your hands to entangle with his for the briefest moment? It was a plea for his assurance, after all, you were not to be disposed alone in this fate. If his eyes darted to the brush of hands, he did not acknowledge it.

 

Instead he began his vows. His voice as it graced the audience chamber for the first time, silken and certain. “I, Seto, formerly Nekhtsethenes the Wise Serpent, Creator-and family-loving divine light within, the Everliving, solemnly pledge my sacred promise that as High Priest of All Temples, and Ruler of the Two Lands.” The crowds stayed bowed low to the floor. “I will uphold, maintain, and govern with all my creative powers, the customs of my realm, pledging my promise to my creators, my people, with the help of Isis and Osiris, and all the Egyptian gods, goddesses, and those of all the lands in this world and others, until the day that I start a new life. All this I do vow as I am reborn as King Seti of the House of Greatness. To my Queen and my royal wife I offer you my life and devotion, before the gods I pledge to commit myself to her happiness, good health and a long life, in this life and the eternal next.”

 

He turned to face you. “I will give to you,” he said, brows gathered; in storming eyes you saw your reflection, “every luxury that a woman could ever fathom. Serve beside me as my equal, my confidante and trusted advisor in times of war and peace. May you become an icon of stability and an embodiment of the steadfast permanence of nature itself for the empire in adversity as you come to represent endless continuance, born today as the Mother of Khemet.”

 

You could not look away. From him gaze you had contracted a wave of dancing fire, like what one witnessed in the skies during tempests.

 

Quivering, your own voice seemed to come from some lofty, faraway place. Dimly you heard yourself recite the vows you had dutifully practiced. “I, formerly Crown Princess Delphini, former heir to the throne of the Holy Empire, solemnly pledge my life and loyalty in serving you, King Seti as my husband and king, as your eternally bound wife, in this realm and the life after. I, hereafter Queen Satieh, promise to...”

 

Only then did you falter. Perversely you took notice of how arresting Pharaoh’s appearance was as he stood unmoved before you; of how your head scarcely reached his shoulders. Your stare rose again to meet his. Tension pulsed in every vein. Was it your imagination, or was his harshness beginning to wane? “...I promise to love, honour and remain faithfully by your side as your lifelong companion, for as long as the gods allow. May we be happy, in good health and raise many children together to continue our great legacy.”

 

The high priest officiating the ceremony immediately stepped forward and exalted the vows. “May you reign in serenity, reach for the stars, and may you live forever! Hail the Soul’s beloved! May you return forever!”

 

Your eyes flew away from your husband, to the most distant corner of the room, broken from the trance.

 

The whole assembly surged to their feet and with one voice echoed the exaltation of the high priest, chanting in one overwhelming chorus, “Hail King Seti! Hail Queen Satieh! Hail Ka, the Soul! May you return forever! May your divine light live forever!”

 

Your heart stuttered and breath stormed at the base of your throat at the sudden reciprocation of enthusiasm.

 

It was over. You stood dumbly as all the mantles, regalia, royal robes and double crowns were removed in practiced sequence. Your neck you felt was just short of breaking underneath the strain of your erect posture, but still you held on. Together you and Pharaoh descended the steps and walked the aisle as the music welled up once again. Flower petals rained in your path, dismembered petals of lotus, pink and amethyst squashing under hard sandals. Their sweet perfume wafted up, filling the chamber. The subjects kneeled and prostrated themselves. They remain bowed as you passed. Earthy incense was burned by the high priests trailing behind you. With fierce determination you kept your gaze levelled.

 

Ascending the steps to the balcony facing the outside and the people of Sepfuruna, inch by inch, as hundred more faces came into your field of vision, your heart soared. Gathered by the hundreds and possibly thousands in the streets, these were the faces you had antagonized, pinned as an indirect source of your misery. You blamed them, for the man beside you was taken of the liberty to be kind and morally bound as he was entrusted with governing them. They were the reason you could not love him. But these people welcomed your presence, and you could hear it in their cheers.

 

As you and Pharaoh stood tall by the edge of the balcony, the crowd sank to its knees and bowed deeply, and upon Sennefer’s formal introduction of you and Pharaoh, someone let out a resounding whoop, and then a loud cheer seemed to rumble the very floor beneath your feet, sweeping the masses.

 

A heady sensation, was it pride? It flooded you.

 

You were not blind of those who did not celebrate your coronation with sincerity; High Priestess Merneith the most harrowing name on your mind.

 

You were a woman who seldom planned beyond the next day, there had been no reason to. In the Holy Empire your fate had been to either be slaughtered for the sake of the citizens’ continued prosperity, or to die at the machinations of your stepmother. But suddenly all was different. When before you had others’ expectation to die, now you had subjects who wished for you to live. For the first time you had a small understanding of what Pharaoh must have felt with each passing day...why he could not easily abandon his heritage...what he and his predecessors had surely experienced, this boundless connection to the land and its people.

 

At the break of this epiphany you remembered the man who had been the doorway to all of this. The very start. _Mahaado, wherever could you be_ , you thought morosely as you searched for his face in vain. And what ill fortune would it have been if you had found him then, right in that moment.

 

What you would have done then, you would never know, for a rock-hard arm locked around you, pulling you to it and breaking your contemplation. Your hands flew up, a feeble attempt to maintain some distance, but in the next moment you were caught tight against Pharaoh’s body, your arms folding in between.

 

His visage swam before you. Just before his head swooped low, there was an unmistakable flash in his eyes, something you could only discern as triumph. You could feel the fire, the rise of emotion inside him. Nor was this a mere brush of his lips on yours, a cursory acknowledgment of your new status as husband and wife. No, this was a raw, blistering kiss that spoke of Pharaoh’s possessiveness.

 

Everything within you cried out starkly. Was this for the people’s benefit, or for his own? There was no stopping him. The shouts and whistles all around faded to nothingness. When his tongue traced the seam of your lips, you gasped. He pressed home his advantage, his tongue drove deep, a plundering journey which plumbed the depths of your mouth. He kissed you until your senses were reeling and you were certain the only thing that held you upright was the brace of his arms.

 

When at last he released you, you felt yourself sway. Pharaoh had already turned away, but his hand remained at your waist. Below, a roar broke out anew. Yet you could not begrudge these people, any of them. How long had it been since there was anything to celebrate about? A very long time, you would conclude, looking out at their beaming faces.

…

 

What followed after the wedding was largely as expected. The hallowed halls of the royal palace were filled with the upper echelons of the empire and its surrounding territories, with Ashenvale noticeably absent. Throngs of cheering peasants and lesser nobility lined the streets as the procession travelled to the centre of the city, the Emporium. For several long hours you endured long toasts and speeches and blessings, and having many valuable gifts presented to you and Pharaoh. As was not unusual in such a political situation, you barely had a chance to speak more than a few ceremonial words to your new husband and the people, the rest of the time limited to basic platitudes and the occasional simple pleasantries. It wasn’t until much later in the evening, when the number of well-wishers dwindled, you were at last given a chance to breathe easy. Even then, the political dance had not yet ended, as the most important intermediates would join you at Pharaoh’s banquet hall, and you would be obligated to entertain them. To your mounting confusion, the wedding party did not move in the direction of the palace as you were expecting but towards the Nile.

 

It was the blackest of nights, a waning crescent of a moon having set with the sun, the stars shone that much brighter. On the Nile the cosmos rippled and scattered in waves.

 

The evening had been exhausting, and over the course of it, you had brought yourself to stand closer and closer to him. At your brushing shoulder and fingers tangling accidentally — he would assume — he gave you a quizzical stare.

 

“Why are we here?” you asked him in this moment where you had his attention.

 

“Floating lanterns. I understand you’re accustomed with the practice,” he said, continuing to walk forwards.

 

“I was told it was not...”

 

By the riverbank you first observed the unlit paper lanterns twice as large as their makers, lined up on the banks like swollen barrels. Beyond them were boats with small sails.

 

He handed you a slip of parchment and a reed pen dipped in ink. “Writing what you desire most and sending it to the gods, you don’t need me to explain to you your own tradition surely.”

 

You watched him in astonishment. You searched for many moments for the words to say. “Thank you...” You would not ask how he had known, that curiosity seemed to answer itself; there didn’t seem to be much the man did not know.

 

You wrote your words carefully guarded. If some god really did exist, you would have them read your wishes.

 

He wrote his own, and how desperately you wished to know what a man already in possession of everything, a man able to conquer every mortal desire at a whim could possibly want of a higher power.

 

The first lanterns set ablaze a mesmerizing amber was yours and his. He held the torch to the wick himself, and you watched the massive orb burn to life. Under it you hung your parchment.

 

He offered to hold your lanterns as he helped you on.

 

As you boarded a boat, and he began to row the two of you away from shore, the two lanterns held from the sky by the tip of your fingers, one by one on the riverbank you watched more lanterns come to life. Into the dark river the boats followed, pulling away from shore and following you into the night’s canvas.

 

Now scattered golden globes contested the glittering stars, some floating across the river while some stayed surrounding the banks, each held by figures dwarfed against the abundance of the landscape. The dancing lights spilled across the darkness, across the night and over the waves, everyone waiting for you to send off yours.

 

At a distance from the riverbank Pharaoh brought the boat to a standstill. He reached for his lanterns, standing beside you.

 

“Everything is possible in my realm,” he told you. The light from your lantern burned in blue eyes as you looked up to him. “If you want a desire realized, it would be sensible to ask it of me, than waiting on a god you’ve never met.”

 

You had so much you wanted to say, but what manifested was perhaps the most childish thought. “If you tell someone your wish, it doesn’t come true. And I want this more than anything to come true.”

 

“To be away from my side again?” he asked.

 

“No, that would be the last thing.”

 

He asked you to release your lantern. Repeating your wish over and over in your thoughts you unwrapped your fingertips from its edge, watching the hanging parchment sail into the heavens. You watched his too, and then the thousands which joined; the whole sky an eruption of speckles of golden light, like giant fireflies, outnumbering the stars.

 

You timidly reached for his hand by his side.

 

He snatched his arm away, and you were devastated. What were you expecting, after rejecting him so thoroughly? You reap what you sow.

 

 

 

 

You were entirely unaware of the parchment hidden in his palm. The small slip which had been smoothly removed from the string and replaced with an identical one, just before the lantern was released. Had Pharaoh allowed you to thread your fingers through his, you would have discovered his ploy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clothing references:
> 
> Wedding dress: https://pin.it/blk3g4qvjnjzds  
> Seto’s wedding attire reference (Except with longer kilt and blue cloak) https://pin.it/efw6dyxduxnxkh


	12. You Are My Star

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Est: Heads up, everybody. Prepare for the...unsavory implications. Nothing actually happens but it almost does. I'll talk about this in more depth in my notes at the end of the chapter. But trigger warnings apply, so watch out.

The releasing of lanterns you had believed to be the height of the celebration, but the extravagance of the affair seemed to only grow. The need for the royal palace to display the kingdom’s prosperity in all its abundance at a moment when it was placed on the world’s stage was understandable, and you witnessed lavishness beyond what you had ever fathomed existed in the mortal realm. Being a princess who had at one time been the designated heir to an empire which believed it rivalled Khemet in influence, you were not easily impressed, and such a statement was not carelessly made.

 

From what your husband had relayed, he had afforded his Vizier creative freedom over almost all aspects of the planning; with the exception of course being the strictness of the security detail. Not a breath would fall over the Ebony Banquet Hall without the royal guard’s and by extension the Pharaoh’s permission. 

 

The hall was alive with candles and lamps, the tables groaned under the weight of exotic and elaborate foods, troubadours and musicians played, poets declaimed, and a troop of actors performed a short selection of traditional Khemetian dramatics.

 

Men and women from across the Black Lands and beyond, danced and feasted wearing linens and silks and brocades with no two styles ever the same; from the colourful and elaborate to the simple and elegant. Fun and merriment was interrupted often by toasts and speeches, well wishing for the health and happiness of the new royal couple, and for the future of this Kingdom of the Sun.

 

In the hour that followed your head began to spin. There was a never ending procession of food from the kitchens; roasted water fowl with the brilliant tail feathers intact, capon, a vast assortment of meat pies, cheeses and breads. And lettuce. Leaves of lettuce were being served to you and Pharaoh in all sorts of dishes alongside the meat and poultry. You weren’t averse to it, but you found it very odd, that no other besides the two of you were being served the vegetable. As the platters were offered and served, you accepted but a few.

 

Pharaoh leaned close. “Why do you not eat?” he asked bluntly.

 

“I had a hearty meal this morning,” you whispered in reply.

 

“Have you learned nothing? Your deceit does you no favours. Asim was prudent to inform me of your lack of appetite, and how you refused but a few bites of food,” Pharaoh hissed under his breath.

 

Caught in the lie, you said nothing to refute him. His eyes pinioned you, his regard so unforgiving and penetrating you grew more uncomfortable.

 

“Do you feel ill?” He placed the back of his palm against your forehead without notice. The gesture wasn’t without its audience and you snatched his hand into both your own.

 

“I am quite alright,” you said. You didn’t know what to do with his hand you held, but of one think you were certain and that was the conviction that despite all else, you wouldn’t allow yourself to crumble to dust in the face of these guests. You were better than that.

 

He was persistent. “Would you like to leave?”

 

“There is no need.”

 

He eyed his hand you clutched with both of yours and questioned you with a raise of his eyebrow. You released him with a start and saved yourself by a hairbreadth from falling onto the guest on your left; an Eastern high prince you found both fascinating and peculiar. 

 

Your husband fixed you with a stern glare and you helped yourself to a generous helping of mutton, chewing pointedly until he acquiesced and returned his focus to the ongoing conversation at the table.

 

The meat was juicy, tender and perfectly cooked, but if it tasted any better than boiled leather you could not say as you invested all your efforts in swallowing the fare you could find no will to eat.

 

You were seated along the dining table set up on the opposite of the performing actors; small enough to be exclusive and private, but accommodating enough in space to fit five of you and your guards. Chief Inquisitor Omar stood as silently and as unyieldingly as a mountain behind Pharaoh. The green eyed sentinel who had taken Omar’s post for these past nights was anchored to a spot behind your chair. You were surprised when you recognized him at last; that this was none other than White Court Councilman Sagi, Zahur’s supporter at Ife’s trial. You were certain he was a councilman. Or were you mistaken; had he been a member of the Blue Militia all along? No, that couldn’t be right, it was Vizier Sennefer himself who had introduced him to you.

 

“What brings you to my domain?” Pharaoh interrogated of the wayward high prince. “I doubt you've known of my impending nuptials until this very day. Have you gotten lost in the Great Sand Sea again?”

 

“Very amusing, Pharaoh Seti, but I am circumnavigating the Dark Continent,” Wei Shiren proclaimed grandly as he waved his goblet to gesture, before taking a moment to admire the colour of his wine.

 

You were genuinely intrigued by Wei’s announcement, and indeed with the man himself. His hair and skin were as white as sea foam, his eyes were as mesmerizingly cerulean as Pharaoh’s. And there was something lacking in his noble bearing...perhaps it was that all the pride and self-importance that most royalty insisted on displaying was in him; simply a jest? Or perhaps satire is a better word. He was bright, both in intelligence and attitude, and had a clever gift for seeing the humour in Pharaoh’s brutal tirades. He also seemed to lack the aristocratic contempt most noblemen held for those who failed to live up to their standards. Your stepbrother would have hated Wei Shiren. This alone was reason enough to look upon him favourably.

 

“You see, I've travelled along the Westernly coast, visited every settlement, and I took a tour of the Independent Cities back when I was younger,” he continued, before glancing at you, considering. “Well, I suppose it wasn’t that long ago. Anyway, I was in search of a new adventure, and I stumbled across this brilliant idea! No one, to my knowledge, has ever sailed and marched around the entire continent, setting out in one direction and arriving again from the opposite direction - at least, not in one go. Oh, people travel from place to place, but usually in search of trade and business, or for specific goals, rather than the simple joy of travelling and seeing new lands. So, I stored up my ship, roped a few cronies and hangers on to join me, and sailed away from my motherland, heading East. We sailed through the Forest of Corals, stopped in the tiny kingdom of Rome, crossed to the Ship's Graveyard, and tasted the freshest wines along the south coast of the Hittites’ Sacred Grounds...”

 

 

“You did not include the Lightsworn Isles in your quest?” asked Pharaoh, glancing at you, and Wei grinned.

 

“Why would I? They feel that they’re barely connected to us who dwell in the ‘Dark Continent,’ and to be honest I’d be delighted to forget that they’re our allies, so I decided to...shall we say, respect their preferences. Besides! It would have needlessly added a great deal of time and tedium to the journey. Do you have any clue as to what, apart from the pirate attacks, could possibly make visiting the Lightsworn Isles interesting?”

 

Had you still been the heir to the throne of the Holy Empire you would have been obligated to speak up in defence of your ancestral lands, or at the very least respond to Prince Wei Shiren’s challenge in some way. One of the first lessons imparted upon you by your tutors was the existence of those sacrilegious barbarians who dwelled beyond the Boundary, across the wide ocean. How they needed to be taught the ways of the moon god Cynthios, how they needed enlightenment, how it was your duty as Princess Delphini and priestess to educate any whom you came across. As one who had lived on Genova for most of your life you were in a position to share with this pale prince of the wondrous temples and holdfasts the Holy Empire had protected since the dawn of the mythic century, of the ancient forests which sheltered the settlements from the floods.

You were, and yet you could find no will to speak in their defence, so you held your tongue. Not only did you hold no will to, but now also held obligation to speak in the name of Delphini. And you could care less for the empire which celebrated your death. It was difficult to find pride in a heritage which had turned you away. More and more with the months, you could find no guilt for how you had parted; betrayal was inevitable in your relationship, it was only that you has betrayed them first. You found more guilt in what you hand had inevitably dealt to this kingdom which celebrated you as their mother and queen. 

 

You found yourself in a strange limbo between agreement and censure; while all the men laughed at Prince Wei Shiren’s stinging wit, and a glance to your right revealed Pharaoh himself smirking as he sipped from his goblet. You alone remained silent and unresponsive. Truly there was no love lost between those who lived on the Dark Continent and the Lightsworn Isles. Before you were only academically aware of the cultural divide, but here was a clearer view of the realities between the empires of the world.

 

“...In any case, I decided that stopping in Khemet to do some repairs and scrape the hull was a brilliant idea before we dared to brave the icy storms of the Northmost Lands,” Wei finished. You realized with a start that you had missed his storytelling.

 

“To travel this far already, you’ve been incredibly brave and daring, if extremely foolish,” praised and admonished the Prince of Nomads, seated to the right of Pharaoh, but he smiled fondly. “Whatever will you do when you reach those treacherous tundras? Surely you won't try and sail further than that?”

 

“Oh, gods forfend,” Wei dismissed his fellow prince's concern. “I'll leave that to later generations of sailors with more courage than sense. The plan is to dock and purchase horses. My chosen party will ride along the edge of the borderlands, stopping at the occupied forts, then head South. We should be able to find passage to the Dreadlands port where I've arranged another galley to be waiting for us when we arrive, which will take us down the coast and back home.” He sat back in his chair, looking extremely pleased with himself.

 

“An impressive and ambitious journey,” you said at last, smiling. “I don't suppose you are making a record of your experiences?”

 

“I am keeping notes and the like, but for the most part, in the form of letters I'm writing to my elder brother; he begged to be allowed to come with us, but our Honoured Mother simply wouldn't hear of it. I'm doing my best to describe what I see and experience in as much detail as I can, through the eyes of someone who is seeing them for the first time. He won't be able to read them until I return home, but I think he'll enjoy them.”

 

“I do not mean to inconvenience you, but would it be possible to peruse these letters?” you ventured. “I am very interested in what you have compiled.”

 

“Only if you agree to an exchange of firsthand experiences,” Wei said pleasantly. “It only occurs to me now, you are Genova borne, are you not, Queen Satieh?”

 

The Prince of Nomads spluttered ungracefully. “You must be jesting. How does one of your connections and standing fail to learn the most basic details of his host's new bride? Have you saltwater in your ears?”

 

At the end of the table, Vizier Sennefer glanced up from his platter, suddenly arrested by the interaction.

 

You did not notice; you were too frazzled by the new political environs and your new marital status to focus on anything but how the beautiful prince from the East treated you with such consideration. You did not see Pharaoh's darkening expression.

 

“Yes, I was a native of the Lightsworn Isles,” you replied. “Although you are mostly correct, there would be no point in taking a detour to my former home.” You reflected briefly on your former home. “There is not much there that would fascinate your curiosity.”

 

“I suppose my earlier remark on your homeland was rather crass. I would understand if you thought I was...how do you say — oafish in my commentary.”

 

You understood that to be a difficulty in bridging a language barrier, his rather odd choice of words.

 

“On the contrary, my words were only meant to be an agreement of your own,” you said. “It held no ill will.”

 

“Be that as it may, I would still be gladdened to hear of this Holy Empire of Delphini,” Wei said with much enthusiasm. “To us of the Dark Continent, the Holy Empire is a land of mystery and wonderment. And if you allow it, I would very much like to include our meeting in my letters.”

 

“If you would like it.”

 

You smiled, and he returned it, all the while, entirely unaware of how displeased your husband had grown of the exchange and more so, how intriguing it was, this unexpected friendship to the onlookers.

 

…

 

You walked two steps behind him, hands clasped in front, eyes tracing from one corner to the other his broad shoulders. You were walking by the water's edge, the lotus pond a dark mirror; your reflection dwarfing behind his under the torch lights fixed on the far walls. You wondered if it was okay to leave the wedding party unannounced, but questioning him, you would receive a vague response if he was feeling generous or a harsh one if he was not. From what you had witnessed through the course of the night, though you had grown acutely aware of him, the man and the proximity, you would not rely on luck to wager on the former.

 

At the raised stage jutting out over the pond — from the opposite bank you had learnt giving it the illusion of hovering above the water, held up by lilies — he stopped, and you, two steps behind him was his shadow. It was where you had shared your first night which now felt as if it was many lifetimes ago.

 

There was a colourfully woven carpet rolled out across the centre, obscuring the pattern laid out of stone, piled carelessly with vivid hued pillows, though appraising it with a keener eye, whoever had arranged it, there seemed to be a method to their madness.

 

"Sit," he said, reminiscent of how he had said it the first time.

 

Stiffened by nerves, some frightened expression spilling across your features surely, you nodded in a manner which was less than graceful, obliging. You arranged your sandals on the edge, fiddling with their evenness until he demanded you stop it.

 

"Let it be," he repeated in a tone gentler.

 

He had taken his seat beside you by now; one arm leaned against the cushions, turned on his side to you. You grew increasingly small under his scrutiny. The girl who had sat here many night ago wouldn't recognize you now. He reached to you with a tentative hand, fingertips grazing your cheek. Your eyes were fixated on him. It wasn't entirely romantic, and fear didn't exist alone, your thoughts lost on a spectrum between entranced and paralyzed. At last you closed your eyes, his gaze too intense, too cutting.

 

"I have something for you," he said. "Consider it a wedding present."

 

You opened your eyes, and he held out a wooden box, carved painstakingly and varnished. The smell of the lacquer still lingered. It was a large box, though not enough to be called a crate, it could easily house enough grain to feed a small peasant family. With the vaguest flick of his eyes he bade you to open the gilded lock. It left a slight imprint on your thumb before it clicked open, flipping up. The heavy lid now released from its binds revealed a sliver of what it held; vermillion clothe — sails?

 

"You seem to possess a particular fascination for toys I carve," he said as you pondered the mysteries of the box.

 

Your eyes darted up to him. "...That — that you carve?"

 

"The yellow canary you treasure and those song birds. Did you think it coincidence that they seem to gather at your bedside?"

 

You studied him, and the box, eyes falling from one to the other. You shook your head. "No, the yellow bird came to me many years ago. It was given to me by an old friend from... He..." Realization seemed to weave itself between all the dots in disarray right before your eyes. It was wholly plausible that a high priest in the service of His Majesty would come to be in possession of such a thing, though your husband had never struck you as able to fashion something so whimsical. Granted he could dispose himself to a task undistracted for hours on end and you had never invested any thought or praise on his intellect and versatility in a wide range of subjects and disciplines. You had elevated him no higher than a jailer, a tyrant.

 

"An old friend?" he asked. His voice grew gruffer and it affirmed all the thoughts you had only moments before been inclined to renew with more merit.

 

"Yes."

 

He seemed to form a question, but appeared to decide against it; you watched the emotions flicker across his expression. "Open it," he instead said.

 

You did, and it revealed to you a miniature sail boat, an exact replica of the Khemetian warships which had washed up on your shores years prior. It boasted vermillion sails tied daintily to the wooden mast with string, curved saffron blossom sterns painted with sapphire sepals and pairs of golden oars. You lifted it from the silk it was nestled into with both hands, afraid of hurting his delicate creation. From the wooden boat a gilded key protruded, polished to a sheen.

 

"You made this?" you asked him, as if yours words were beads slowly being strung through a thread, clicking together slowly. "...And all my birds?...You?" Your eyes darted up to find him, they hunted for a shred of insincerityin his revelation.

 

...But you had found so much happiness in them. It was unthinkable that he would be at its source; their maker. The very thought tearing at the fabric of everything you've so meticulously sorted into good and bad; tinging you with guilt.

 

You still held it up on both palms, studying it with a certain reverence, awed by the detail he had succeeded in capturing, from the rails on the balcony decks to the floor boards.

 

"It won't break," he said. "I don't make things that break, a creation speaks to the legacy of its creator. A reflection of his character and there is no place for weakness in this world. So I say, I don't tolerate weakness as a portrayal of me."

 

"No one would dream of finding weakness — in you, Your Majesty," you replied in shock. It had been a very severe statement, one inspiring only such a reaction.

 

"Is it to your liking?"

 

"Very much," you admitted.

 

"Put it on the water," he said, "and wind the key."

 

Your eyes lingering over him for a second longer, you ventured to the edge of the ledge, and placed the toy boat on the water. Kneeled over the edge, unwilling to part you held on to it with both hands, afraid it might sink, afraid it might sail beyond your reach. Leaning over you he covered your hands with both his own, and then gently, reached for the winding key. A wheel beneath you had not before noticed began to churn the water as it spun, propelling the small ship forward across the pond. The rows of oars paddled synchronized on each side.

 

You were lost in wonderment for only a moment at the sight before the thought of losing your new gift struck fresh fear in you. "I don't want it to sail away!" you told him in a panic.

 

He gave a half smile. "You could always go after it." At the absence of any understanding of his suggestion he elaborated, "There are stairs leading into the pond, and it's safe so long as you don't cross the water into the river."

 

When had stairs manifested under the podium, you wondered, crawling across the platform to find them. The water was a black glass, rippling and rising up to hide the stairs.

 

You reached to remove your diadem, and turning to him with a concerned expression sought his approval.

 

"I didn't think you needed my help," he said, thoroughly taunting you.

 

Mumbling to the contrary, lost for words at the unforeseen ambush, you set down your crown, then your heavy earrings beside them. You poked your toe gingerly into the water. It was cold; and though the night was beginning to cool, it was a welcome change from the heat of the banquet hall writhing with dancing and hot bodies all seeming to melt and combine together in your eyes. On the water lotuses bobbed, and in the distance of the sky, stars and lanterns melded together, impossible to tell apart. The rest of the world, beyond the orange lit podium was onyx.

 

Gathering up your skirt you climbed down to the first step, and Pharoah wrapped a stabling grip around your upper arm as you reached for the next; his calloused hand slipping to yours as you climbed further and further in. The silk of your dress at once deepened in colour while seemingly dissolving into the water.

 

Retrieving your toy stopped against a stalk of lotus, sheltered under its petals, you winded it again. After it you followed, laughing, eyes losing focus in your trance, threading deeper and deeper into the pond; the smooth sandstone softening to a mossy mud below your feet, deepening into the river. You would not see the towering figure following closely behind, wading the water with powerful strides, ready to snatch you back into him should you in your childish enthrallment reach the currents of the river.

 

You had abandoned pulling up your skirt; the train gliding between lotus stems underwater, now drenched up to your hips. The fabric clung to you, revealing unapologetically the skin beneath, tinting it a faded turquoise.

 

As the winded key turned completely out, the boat stalled in the water, riding the soft waves, and you picked it back up, turning it again as far as it would wind. You changed direction this time, chasing the sail boat alongside the riverbank in the distance. And your husband followed, unbeknownst to you.

 

When it stopped again, you turned abruptly to announce your thrill, and he was behind you, closer than your shadow; colliding roughly against him. He held you with a stern gaze and a steady arm. Your gaze fell before his, as it always did, and he held you closer.

 

It was happening once more; the air had suddenly shifted to one with an underlying sense of tension. Heat was becoming molten, and you became acutely aware of the way his skin brushed against yours. The unique scent you had come to recognize as his surrounded you, even as the fragrance of the lotus blossoms wafted over the both of you. Your heart beat against your ears. All of this, and nothing had happened yet.

 

“I think that's enough for one night,” he said, sorting your hair. You had believed you no longer cared for how it fell; appearances, it had become too exhausting to maintain but against him suddenly it seemed to start to matter the smallest bit.

 

“I have wronged you, seven nights before. The first time was my way of countering your attempt on my life, but the second time...the second time I strangled you, was uncalled for. You were subdued and disarmed. There is no justification for the way I prolonged your suffering then.”

 

His thumb stroked the nape of your neck. It took everything in you to not flinch before him; eyes closing as his touch neared.

 

“I was convinced the gods had found a way to punish me for my transgression, when I found your body bleeding the next morn. Even as the physician assured me the harmlessness of this condition to me afterward, the timing could not be more suspect. I have considered at length how to pay my dues to you since then.

 

“Will you allow me to earn your forgiveness?”

 

“What did you have in mind?” you asked in a hushed voice, your eyes still closed.

 

His hands crept past your back to the curve of your behind, and he leaned into you, parted lips lingering over your temple, cheek, and following the curve of your ears to your neck.

 

You nervously moistened your lips, your hands rising to rest on his chest, guarding the space between. He pulled away, led you by the hand out to the edge of the water and lifted you into him, carrying you up the steps. You had resisted at first, but something in his gaze, perhaps its overwhelming capacity to be disarming had forced you to surrender.

 

“You’re drenched,” he said in a voice that was rich and deep and stirring against your ear. His hands were moving up and down your arms.

 

So you were, you could feel a puddle forming around your feet where he had set you down to stand. You maintained your eyes low, focusing on his feet; your puddles were merging to become one, the run off trailing through stone back to the waves washing the steps.

 

You could feel his long, dexterous fingers dancing along your back, undoing the delicate ties of your dress. You said nothing as the silk slipped from warm skin and peeled away where the water had touched, prickling as the brush of the breeze broke against open skin. Standing exposed before him in scanty undergarments soaked to your hips and no where else; it wasn’t a new feeling; being vulnerable to him, but you objected once as you thought he reached for that last garment.

 

“There’s no one here but us,” Pharaoh said lowly, picking away a stray petal of lotus on your hip.

 

His breath at your neck reminded you of how those same fingers had squeezed you, pushing you to the brink of unconsciousness. Becoming his wife changed nothing; if you resisted him too much you were certain he would do it once over. You would not fight him anymore, nor would you deny him his right as your husband.

 

Thus you calmed your racing heart as best as you were able, and the emperor peeled away your undergarment, revealing your bare skin inch by tantalizing inch. The cloth was carelessly discarded next to your feet, and there you stood, gloriously naked before his eyes, like a nymph of legend that Pharaoh had plucked from her watery home.

 

Not a moment later, his long robes and kilt joined the abandoned undergarment. What was he planning to do to you, you wondered faintly as he stepped away from you for a short while.

 

“Dry yourself with this.”

 

Your increasingly anxious thoughts were scattered like dandelion seeds, as a thick cloth of royal purple was wrapped firmly about your body. They scattered and they never quiet recovered, watching him with big, round eyes the way wolves maddened by the moon did.

 

Securing his own cloth around his waist he stepped closer, taking a hold of the edges of the cloth you clenched in your closed fists. His breath on your cold skin he slid the cloth past your shoulders, past your back towards him inadvertently, and to your waist as he dried you. His fingers pressed firmer as they curved over the swell of your behind, and he brought himself to a kneel before you. You could feel his fingers through the cloth.

 

Did you give yourself permission to be aroused by him? He gently brought the cloth to your thighs, and slower still to your shins, drawing closer with each breath. He pressed his lips just below your stomach and you quivered. Your skin was still wet there but he didn’t seem to mind, and you wouldn’t notice had the kiss not lingered; that one marked place scorching while the wind blew chills over the rest of your skin.

 

His lips trailed a path down to the junction of your thighs and your arms shot to knot in his hair, jerking him away. The force of the motion broke in his neck and his eyes snapped up to you.

 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, and you held your breath but you couldn’t step away.

 

He rose and you shrivelled; only then did you realize how small you could be before him. His expression was always a clean slate and you argued with yourself that had he spared a morsel or empathy for you just once in all these weeks, if he could prove himself to be more man than god in the slightest, you would overcome your scruples and maybe even find something in this marriage beyond forgiveness for his misdeeds.

 

Walking you backwards he laid you over the rug; the damp cloth opened under you and he stripped you, cradling you in the comfort of the pillows. He pressed himself against you, lips claiming yours with unconcealed fervour. Sound drained away, from the gurgling waves at the river banks to the wind weaving the reeds, it all held their breath, allowing you to listen to your beating heart, and the rise of his pulse in his neck under your fingertips.

 

You shivered in his embrace and he parted just enough to look at you. “Are you cold?”

 

You were one half of a hot body writhing under a warm desert sky, how could one be cold, you wanted to ask but then you felt the wind at your skin and how it inspired the instinct to curl into yourself.

 

“A little,” you said.

 

He lifted a stone decanter from somewhere by the edge of the rug and poured you a chalice. “To warm your body,” Pharaoh said, holding it to your lips.

 

Your eyes slowly climbed to hold his, and at your reluctance to swallow he removed it from your lips pressed together. How easily he had accepted your refusal was surprising and all at once confusing. Then within a moment it made sense. He raised the glass above you and tipped it, the long pour of wine spilling over your stomach and trickling to your legs. The velvet streams flowed down your thighs; cold where the heat of your thighs met.

 

You gasped, equally from fear and shock, believing his response to be an act of aggression. You almost imagined the consequence, certain it would again be his hands at your throat, and you flinched.

 

Instead he kissed you on parted lips and pulled himself between your legs. You looked down upon him, transfixed. He kissed you in that same place below your stomach fleetingly before with a long lick of his tongue he slurped at the wine spilt over your skin.

 

His fingers grasped at your thighs and he descended lower. You moaned against your inhibitions and through your mortification moaned again at the euphoria of his mouth sucking on wine soaked skin. They marked you from your raised hip bone to your inner thigh, inching closer to the centre of your womanhood and you tugged at him again by his hair; this time gentler.

 

“Your Majesty,” you pleaded and he looked to you.

 

“This is my special way of toasting my new wife,” the young emperor said, voice perfectly even if not for the underlying husk. “Care for more wine?”

 

Your entire body blushed at his claim, and he chuckled lowly at the sight. You nodded frantically though your motions were yet to be fluent again from when he had devastated you. “In a goblet, please.”

 

“Have it your way,” he said, parting from you to lift the decanter once more.

 

You had grown wary of the drinks Pharaoh had given you; they were almost always mead laced with the sleeping potion, reminding you of your betrayal with each sip. But the wine that passed through your lips was not the sort which had been watered down to mix well with the sleeping potion. This was...

 

“Apple cider,” you said in wonder. The familiar sweet tang on your palate was akin to the gates of heaven swinging open, giving back to you yet another piece of your former home you had believed was lost to you forever. The Genova drink was a small comfort you welcomed to the last drop.

 

A pleasant warmth stole through your body, coursing down to the pit of your belly. “May I please have more?”

 

“This is yours,” Pharaoh said, obliging your request. Determined not to say anything in response, you raised the goblet and drank from it. You saw his gaze lower to your mouth. Self-conscious, you licked a drop of cider off your lips. Sudden heat flared in his eyes. “Everything within my realm...is now ours to share.”

 

To get his attention away from your mouth, you pushed the goblet towards him. “Would you care for a sip?”

 

He slowly shook his head, marvelling that the sight of your tongue caressing your bottom lip could send shafts of desire through him. He'd even turned down a drink, despite continuous efforts to drink himself to a stupor on especially trying nights. His mind was on other appetites at the moment.

 

Earlier, during the late feast he'd watched as you bit into a leaf of lettuce and wondered how the simple act of eating was so arousing to him. He knew you were uncomfortable with his staring, but it was only fair. You had driven him to distraction the entire evening.

 

You frowned at him. “Haven't you ever seen someone drink before?”

 

“Not the way you do.” You had no response to that, thankfully there was no need to think of one. “I have one final gift for you, my queen, but it will keep until tomorrow. Tonight –” he gently took your now emptied goblet and put it aside. “Tonight, and all our nights together afterward will only bring you pleasure. This I swear.”

 

Why did this promise sound more personal, more sincere than his marriage vows, you asked yourself.

 

“You were exceptionally well-behaved throughout the ceremony,” he said, his tone casual. He noticed how you tensed slightly but he ignored this, leaning forward and nibbling on the side of your neck. “Not once did you voice a complaint, in spite of your restlessness and fatigue. Even now, you are on edge.” He punctuated his statement by squeezing slightly on your right shoulder, feeling the taut muscle. You squirmed. “Lay on your stomach,” he coaxed.

 

“Y-you are not obligated to attend me, Pharaoh,” you protested.

 

He wasn't fooled by your submissiveness. If anything, the gleam in your eyes was mutinous and wary. “You will enjoy what I have planned for you,” he insisted.

 

You remained unconvinced, but in the end you obeyed him, turning to lie on your stomach in a fluid motion. The pillows smelled of saffron with each inhale. With much trepidation you waited, your cheek pressed against soft fabric as he reached for a small bottle off to the side, wrapped a small clothe. Your hair was carefully pushed off to your right shoulder, exposing your entire back to the emperor.

 

“Oh!” you gasped aloud as fingers coated in liquid touched the base of your neck, the pads of the digits applying firm pressure. Only when his fingers began moving in a circular motion did you comprehend what he was doing.

 

You went completely still, the sensation his touch provoked travelling all the way down to your toes. You groaned in pleasure, any thoughts of protest dissolving with each careful rub. Admitting complete defeat at his hands, you lifted your arms above your head and buried your face in one of the perfumed pillows, eliciting deep rumbles of enjoyment every so often.

 

Pharaoh grinned down at you as he allowed himself to relish in the feel of the soft skin underneath his fingers. He made his way slowly down your back, taking extra time to give you a thorough massage at the base of your spine. Moving off to one side, he continued down your legs and rubbed your thighs. It was inevitable to chuckle at the groan of utter bliss you elicited when he massaged your calves. After he was done with your legs, he returned to your back for another round. By then, you’d gone entirely immobile and the muscles under Pharaoh's hands were completely relaxed.

 

Finally finishing, he picked up the small clothe and began rubbing off any residue oil left on your skin. The results of this back rub were utterly satisfactory; you were splayed across the pillows in a semi-conscious state of total bliss. With another sly grin, he dropped the small clothe and slipped his hands beneath you.

 

You had believed it was all over for you until he scooped your breasts into his palms, the aching pleasure from his touches reawakening you. It was impossible to hold back the sighs that filled your throat. Ripples of sensation were eddying out from the circular massage of his hands and spreading down through your femininity.

 

He kissed you behind your ear. “When I asked you to strip your drenched gown, I noticed you had nothing binding your breasts underneath,” he whispered. “You only wore your silk undergarment. Was it like that from the start?”

 

“Certainly not,” you moaned indignantly. Baring yourself before Pharaoh was one matter; before an entire audience of foreign dignitaries was another.

 

“So you only took it off when we left the feast? To drive your husband to distraction?”

 

“N-no, I removed it because it had grown uncomfortable,” you said, voice unsteady. “I'd not worn one in so long, I hadn't the time to become accustomed to them again.”

 

This was one of the small victories you'd taken, in regards to your clothing. Asim had of course protested against the use of “such a confining contraption”, and the handmaidens had gossiped about the odd dressing habits of the Delphini women. You on the other hand were shocked that the women of Khemet thought nothing of how their bosoms were on full display, even going so far as to flaunt themselves.

 

“I prefer you this way.” His fingers fanned the tips of your breasts before gently tugging and pinching. The flames within your lower belly grew fiercer. Your head was lost in the mists of passion  and pleasure he had led you into. His hands upon your breasts were no longer enough. You needed his strength, his intensity, his unbridled lust for you. Why be coy for coyness' sake?

 

You turned to him and climbed onto his lap. He sat back and welcomed you into his embrace, his hands on your hips, guiding you, your legs straddling his. Your eyes fell to look at your own swollen breasts aroused to attention from his ministrations and then they looked to him. “Like this?” you whispered.

 

The heat was unbearable, beginning to consume you; and you were convinced he could soothe you.

 

Your arms encircled his neck. Your lips clung together. He nudged your middle, and you ground yourself against him. He hissed a vulgarity. The desperation behind it was so thrilling and wildly erotic that you rubbed against him again for the sheer pleasure of hearing it again.

 

You held the kiss as he secured your legs around his waist, lifting you away from the soft pillows with him. Your hands had taken a life of their own, acting upon desires you had denied yourself; they tugged at his hair, stroked his hard chest, ran over his broad shoulders and muscled upper arms.

 

You were overcome with the urge submit yourself to him. There seemed to be a sudden thrill in it; your thoughts rushed leaving you behind and you grew more and more obsessed with the thought of him...your husband.

 

There was a friction to which you had never even been introduced but you were missing.

 

You needed him, desperately.

 

He set you down as slowly he could manage. You stretched out on your back on the bed. With stray wisps of your dark hair barely covering your flushed breasts, your thighs spread from where they had once been wrapped around his waist, now fully displaying yourself to the emperor.

 

Throughout this, Pharaoh's eyes had never left you as he methodically undid the knot and pulled away the clothe which still hung from his hips. It dropped carelessly onto the limestone steps. Unabashedly your gaze traveled the length of his body in the torchlight, from the strong veins which showed on his arms, to the part of him which was heavy and distinctly male, to his unsmiling mouth.

 

And his eyes. His eyes were alight with life and fire, staring down at you as though asking you a question. You didn't so much as hesitate. You stretched your arms up towards him.

 

He went into your arms as if he was at last reclaiming something that had he been long searching for ardently. He smothered your face with kisses, ran his hands down your arms to seize your wrists, then lifted them above the crown of your head to pin them there. You sighed when he firmly levered his body onto yours, his hips fitting snugly between your thighs. Never had you heard of the gloriousness of the weight of a man on top of one's body. He was so large and you were so small, yet his weight felt heavenly. You moved your thighs against his, feeling how rough they were; the contrast made your excitement rise even higher.

 

“Tell me I am your husband,” he said in a commanding whisper as he began to kiss your body once more. Languorously, as if he had all the time in the world. Aggravatingly slow. You whimpered nonsense, arching into him, trying to free your wrists from his hold in order to touch his warm skin, to pull him closer still. His lips moved from your neck to your collarbones and finally to your breast, taking the peak in his mouth. His dark brown hair was soft and thick and full, tickling your skin. “I cannot hear you,” he taunted you between each caress of his lips, over the sound of your incoherent moans.

 

“You...you are my husband,” you cried out, still wriggling in his grasp. Inside, you felt as if you were running towards something, or someone.

 

“Say my name.” When you did not respond, his hips rocked against yours, and at the same time his free hand pinched your nipple, devastating you. You didn't know how much more of this pleasurable torture you could withstand. “Say it!”

 

“Seto,” you moaned. When you opened your bleary eyes you saw the strain on his face, as though he were trying to prevent something from happening. Inside of you, a wave was building higher and higher, and you felt you would explode. “Seto, my...my husband, you’re my husband.”

 

“And you,” he spoke your birth name in a husk, raising his hand to his lips, “are my wife.” Your eyes opened wider when he heartily sucked on his fingers before lowering them between your thighs.

 

The touch of cold, wet fingers circling your womanhood before gently parting you, the pad of his digit skimming the soaked flesh beneath was too much. The effect on your body was near instantaneous, the excitement within you at last reaching its breaking point. Its eruption could not be stopped. You never wanted it to stop. You knew it was the most wonderful experience of your life.

 

“Seto,” you cried, arching your back once again, your vision becoming white. In the peripheral of your awareness you felt him release your arms and embrace you tightly. You clutched at his back in return, nails digging into olive skin. “Seto,” you sobbed, again and again as this wonderful sensation continued to course through you. It was as if you were flying. Far and away from everything that could harm you, from everything which plotted to end you. Never had you felt so free.

 

When the streams of fire at last died down to mere smouldering embers, the whiteness of your vision faded away. And just before the darkness enveloped your tired body, you glimpsed the endless deep blue sky, and the countless galaxies of stars within.

 

You could feel his breath on your neck.

 

...

 

Mana was startled to find the Tyrant of the Black Lands drinking alone in the second royal reference hall, playing a game of senet against himself.

 

During the wedding feast the priestess had searched high and low for any sign of her master and teacher, for surely Mahaado would be present at the sacred union between King Seti and Queen Satieh. He was anything but disloyal; his friendship with the Delphini princess would be reason enough to return to this realm from whatever faraway lands he'd been travelling. When a handmaiden had dutifully informed her of the emperor's disappearance from his own celebration, along with his new wife and queen, she had assumed they were...together.

 

“What has happened, Your Majesty?” Mana ventured at last. She watched as he poured his cup to the brim with deep red wine, then drank it like water.

 

“Nothing has happened,” he snapped at her. His eyes never left the intricately carved board.

 

“It is around you.”

 

“What is?”

 

“Desire.”

 

He gave her a cold look. Mana nearly abandoned her line of questioning then and there, but she was Mahaado's chosen apprentice for a reason. “I can feel it. I can almost see it. All around you is desire.” A pause. “...Was the love potion ineffective?” She asked skeptically. Mana found this impossible, the potion had been thoroughly tested and used reliably for decades. Still, it was important to make certain. Exceptions always came with rules.

 

“No,” Pharaoh said curtly.

 

His response was entirely unhelpful, as always. Mana had only come here tonight to return the alchemical tomes she had used, and a part of her regretted her decision. Still, another part of her was curious. A man as meticulously thorough as Pharaoh would see to it that the love potion was correctly administered. He wasn't the sort to make mistakes, either. If the potion had truly worked as intended, why was the young emperor brooding alone in the second reference room? Why was he not...enjoying his time alone with his wife? Mana contained her shudder.

 

It suddenly occurred to her. “The physician was wrong. Her Highness, Queen Satieh means much more to you than either of you realized,” she blurted out, relief on your behalf flooding through her heart. “Thus despite having her at your whim, just as you wanted, you decided to spare her!”

 

“Nonsense. You've listened to too many romantic stories.”

 

His words were clearly a dismissal. But she could not give up here. Not when the situation she believed unsalvageable, from the moment Pharaoh accepted the physician's advise, suddenly proved otherwise. The royal palace had already seen too much darkness. If she could help nurture this relationship between Pharaoh and his foreign wife into something positive and good, then perhaps she could truly begin to repent for her failures from the past decade.

 

“This desire you feel for Her Highness, how does it compare to what you've felt for other women?”

 

For a long, long while, he was silent. He picked up a piece and moved it to an adjacent spot.

 

And then, surprisingly, he answered, “Were that all the women I have had offered to me, and all the women I have ever wanted rolled into one, they would not equal my desire for her.”

 

Mana inwardly recoiled when he glanced up from the board to look at her as he spoke. His eyes were so hot, the priestess was sorely tempted to request a deep sip of Pharaoh's wine. She was only able to breathe when he looked back down at his senet board. Mana felt afraid – afraid for you, and afraid of you.

 

“Then you must go to her, Your Majesty.”

 

With that badly worded suggestion, Pharaoh swept his forearm across the senet board, knocking the pieces to the floor. “And become her lover in name only? Shall I bed her, then stand back and watch while she gives her heart and soul to another? Shall I remain here and wait until the night falls, then go to her?”

 

“If I recall, this has never bothered you before,” Mana insisted. “I have heard you say that a wife must give her husband children and keep her misery to herself. As long as she upholds an appearance of faithfulness to her husband, it wouldn't matter what feelings she harbours within her heart.”

 

“I want her misery, too,” he said softly.

 

“Your Majesty?”

 

“I want her bloody misery too,” Pharaoh shouted. “I desire all of her! She –” He calmed.

 

“She what?” Mana pressed. He did not respond, and she snorted. “You give up easily. You act as though she has her eyes set on another but she has not.” A small lie on your behalf wouldn't hurt. “I have never seen you like this. I have never seen you as the pursued one. You have always been the pursuer, the conqueror. Why is this situation so different?

 

“I do not claim to know you as well as those who work closely with you, such as Master Mahaado. Even so. The king I know would never allow his allies and enemies to affect him. But this woman, your queen, has affected you very much. Surely you are aware.

 

“You love her,” Mana whispered, and there was wonder in her voice at her own startling conclusion. She had personally witnessed many women come to the palace to make the warmonger love them, but they never succeeded. “You are in love with her. Or, you are falling in love with her.”

 

“You should go to her, and show her that you love her.” Mana gave him a smile of great radiance. “You should make her miserable. Make her want you, as much as you want her.”

 

…

 

 

You stirred to him standing over you beside the bed. The candles had blown out and you reached up your hands to him. As you were, it was impossible to tell man from mirage and for a moment, as he stood perfectly still you wondered if he was really there.

 

You had hallucinated a many number of things, from rolling sand dunes to caravans on camel back against a melting landscape and a brilliant blue sky. Somehow you always seemed to hold onto that one thing; that all encompassing blueness. It was sweltering, disorienting, and in some backward, nostalgic sense, peaceful. You craved it.

 

You called his name once and he came to you; suddenly his warmth was beside you under the sheets.

 

His scent enveloping you drove you to the precipice of madness and you began to wrap yourself around him, climbing him to clamp your knees against his hips. It was never close enough, intimate enough; you needed to be filled by him. And maybe it still would not be enough.

 

Your nipples were taut, pert breasts rising and falling on your small frame with anticipation of him. You were eager for these mysterious pleasures between a man and a woman he could teach you.

 

He raised his hands; face without expression as always, he drew his long fingers against the raise of your shoulder blades. You met him with a shiver, hips bucking into him. There was an acute sense of awareness of the soaked lips between your thighs pressing against that part of him which seemed to bulge and pulse under you. You were soaking through the fine fabric he wore on his waist, so much so that you could feel his firm flesh thought it, almost as if the cloth wasn’t there.

 

His hands had found your way down your back to hold you by your small waist.

 

There was a shiver prickling your skin but you had grown hot. When had the air in the room become so thick?

 

The young monarch’s eyes had come to rest on the plumpness of your breasts, swelling tighter and tighter under the heat of his gaze. Those blue eyes were burning to charcoal.

 

“What have you done to me...Your Majesty?” you whispered to your husband. You ran your fingers over his chest; grazing the long healed scars faint and disappearing under the flickering light, over the raise of his pecs, to the sculpt of his muscles.

 

You plucked his hand from your waist, and lifted it to your breast. You let your head fall back against the sensation of calloused palms brushing tender breasts. You moaned, but apart from the slightest stiffening, he remained entirely impassive.

 

Unexpectedly he recoiled, and allowed his hand to fall by his side.

 

“Why won’t you touch me?” you asked him. You leaned into him. Slipping your arms around his neck, you pressed yourself against him. “Seto I need you,” you said into his ear.

 

You felt his hand on your back, holding you there, but as you put your lips on his, he rejected you, turning away his face. You couldn’t see his expression, facing away from lamplight.

 

With eyes filled with disappointment your gaze poured over him. “Your Majesty...”

 

It seemed to devastate you, not being wanted, not being desired the way you did him in that moment. You were burning to embers so how was he so unaffected?

 

“Why do you need me?” he finally asked, half his expression still shrouded in the dark.

 

Truthfully, you did not know why; just that there was this obliterating compulsion to lose your breath under him.

 

You watched him, your eyes more hollow than he was used to.

 

He turned you over, pressing you on your back. Leaned over you, the grazing of his lips tickled the sensitive skin of your neck as he spoke. “Why couldn’t you have wanted me sooner?” There was an arm reaching over you, caging you under the sheets.

 

“My king...”

 

“Why did you not open your arms to me sooner?” he demanded.

 

“...I’ve opened my arms to you many times,” you responded softly.

 

“Liar.”

 

“I wanted you, in a way you could never want me,” you said. “I wanted to love you away from this place. Where wars of greedy emperors couldn’t touch you, and you wouldn’t die young in a palace coup plotted by a greedy subordinate coveting more. I wanted to live with you in a simple house, with a pretty garden.”

 

Your husband fell to lay beside you, though his grip was unyielding. You could only speak, bound to his side.

 

“...You could have become a scholar. And I would have grown roses and magnolias in our front garden.”

 

“Magnolias?”

 

“Yes, it’s a tree that flowers in early spring. It smells sweet...like honey floating in the wind.

 

“You’re so very handsome, did you know? From the first time I saw you, I think I knew. I remember thinking...the day I arrived in your court, that day you lifted my hood, I remember wondering...how can a man be so beautiful? I couldn’t see anything else. All I saw was you. And every time you came to see me, I thought my heart would stop. I could have spent my whole life with you. I decided the night you took me to sit by the lotus pond. I may not have always known myself.

 

“Here or in a town by the Nile somewhere, I would have been scared, but I’ve thought about it...what a baby with blue eyes would look like...our baby together. A child I don’t have to force the burden of the throne on. A baby who could learn the letters from her father on a small porch, and can grow up playing on the streets with other children her age.”

 

“You think about our children?” the young emperor asked in a hush.

 

“I think everyday about what could have been, if we had met in a different lifetime, in a different place...I ask myself what I’m going to do for the rest of my life standing in a throne room by your side, holding inside me this future I saw with you.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Est: If you reached these notes it means you've just finished reading everything and you now know what I mean by unsavory implications. Let's clarify everything that was written so there's no room left for doubt.
> 
> Yes, Seto did drug Reader with an aphrodisiac of sorts (back then it was called 'love potion') and was planning on having sex with her while she was under the influence. Yes, Mana knew about this plan, she was sort of involved because she was in charge of Reader's physical health concerns alongside the royal physician. The physician was the one who suggested this in the first place as a means of producing an heir without unnecessary force on Seto's part that could harm Reader physically, which could render her unable to have a child. And Mana was relieved when she spoke to Seto in the library and found out that he didn't go through with this, in the end.
> 
> Let us hear your thoughts, as always!


	13. A Face To Launch A Thousand Ships

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Est: No special trivia for this chapter! Everything's pretty self-explanatory. And though it doesn't seem like any plot is happening, it definitely is.

At the turn of dawn you were dreaming. You dreamt he was looking over you with softened eyes, sorting stray tendrils of your hair away from your face. As your gaze locked with his, the gossamer curtains sailing the wind ever so softly all around you, he came to you, leaning in until there was no air left between you; only the warmth of his lips moving against yours surrounding you.

You smiled against his mouth and you could feel your teeth graze his lips. Then they started to move away, tracing your cheek to the edge of your collarbone. He was pressed against you now, harder, you could feel his firmness on your soft skin.

“Oh...Your Majesty,” you gasped as his grip on your upper arms slipped to hold the contours of your small form, caressing naked skin.

He rasped something incoherent, tone gravelly, burying his face in the crook of your neck. You held him there for a long moment stretching in content silence, your finger sifting through silken russet locks. 

“Last night,” he said, suddenly lifting to look over you, “you said you think about our children.”

You nodded slightly. “I do, I want to give you a child.”

“Would you like me to make you a mother?”

“How?” you asked, smiling up at him, raising your hand to rest your palm against his cheek.

He hung his head. “I couldn’t,” he instead spoke in a grunt. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I am deserving to be the father of our children. Like I still have hope to redeem myself for what I’ve done...” 

“Your Majesty, why — have I made you feel this way? I’m so very sorry if I have.”

“You’re taking blame when it is I who has wronged you, my queen. And you’ll find that I will never allow it to happen again. You’re my person — ” he combed a stray wisp of hair behind your ear “— and so my responsibility.”

“As you are mine, my king. And I — I believe you.”

With the persuasion of your gentle palm, you guided his lips to yours. His hands brushed your skin with soft caresses, all at once quelling and stirring the heat in your lower hips. You breathed out his name as of a prayer, reverently, and under your palms, you could feel his skin prickle in waves.

His lips traced a soft trail over your chin to the pulse of your neck; and your neck arched, allowing him all of you. His breath tickled you and an innocent giggle left you, tangled with his name. As he kissed you there again in that same spot you curled into yourself.

Leaving a chaste kiss on your lips he fell to your side.

“This is the first time — the first time that I’ve seen you laugh, did you know?”

You turned to him, embracing him.

“I wish you would more often.”

“I’ll be sure to do it more often for you, Seto.”

…

And then the dream ended. You slowly opened your eyes and stretched out your arm to loosen your cramped muscles. Dropping your hand onto the pillow beside you, you felt something cool and soft to the touch. Puzzled, you turned your head and saw a sprig of flowers lying amongst the pillows, the deep yellow blossoms brilliant against the white case.

Picking up the small branch of flowers, you rolled onto your back. You were touched by the gesture Pharaoh had made – you were certain the encounter with him earlier this morning was real – although it wasn't one you would have expected from him. Frowning slightly as you gazed up at the tall cavernous ceiling, you brushed the soft petals against your lips as you thought about how you had gotten into Pharaoh's bed. You could not recall being carried to the chambers and that was disconcerting; your body easily remembered the feel of his caresses, and as you brushed the flowers down your chest to your stomach you shivered, your body growing alight with residual, sensual heat.

Another thought jolted you, and you lifted yourself from the pillows to inspect your body. My goodness, you thought in astonishment, as the cheerful morning sun revealed to you the expanse of bruises dotting your breasts, your belly, your thighs. But another desperate attempt to recall the events of the wedding night only ended in vain; you could only remember the pleasurable sensations and nothing more.

You swung your legs over the side of the bed. Instead of lying there mooning over him, you convinced yourself you would be better served to seek him out for direct answers. You were not expecting to feel so weak; you couldn't understand why tremors still ran up and down your legs despite taking the antidote for the paralyzing potion the day before. Losing balance, you sat back down.

…

When you found him he was standing by the river, facing the great currents of the Nile at the edge of the stone ledge. From further beyond, you could faintly hear the clear notes of a hand harp being plucked in time with the chirruping birdsong and the dull roar of flowing water. You walked down the path to him barefoot; the stone below your feet still cool to the touch, unspoiled by the morning sun.

You wrapped your arms around him from behind, clad only in the sheets you had woken up in. You ran your fingers over the smooth raises of his chest, your cheek against the warmth of his back.

“Did you sleep well, Your Majesty?” you asked him, voice still husky from sleep. You couldn’t hope for him to know that the greeting was one exchanged in Delphini between lovers. How long had you waited to say it to yours?

He turned to you in your embrace, appearing as if he was surprised to find you there. He murmured your name, caressing your cheek with the back of his hand. You pressed your face against his hand, wrapping yours around his much larger one. You closed your eyes, feeling how the spiralling wind from the Nile brushed your skin.

“Aye. Did you?” His accent came across thicker than usual.

“Mm-hm. It is late morning now, isn't it. We should have something brought in from the kitchens.”

“There is no need. I've had the servants prepare fresh food – goat cheese, bread and grilled skewered mutton. Help yourself to as much as you like. There is still apple cider available, if you desire another cup.”

You politely refused, expressing your preference to stay by his side until later. He led you to the brilliant blue rug laid out on the stone platform, and bade you to sit with him amongst the pillows.

“Regarding your personal quarters...by now it would have been decorated in a manner fitting for the Empress of the Black Lands. Many weeks I've had you within my private rooms but no longer. You can move out at any time.” You were beginning to frown. He kept his gaze on the pond, as if unable to meet yours. “You only need tell me if there is anything remiss, and I will have it adjusted to your tastes exactly.”

“Thank you. Though I would rather stay with you.”

“Are you sure?”

“I rather like your chambers,” you admitted. “They’re light and there’s space to breathe without being empty. It’s entirely different from the rooms I have frequented back home.” You were about to say, that once he returned to his busy schedule of ruling the empire you wanted to wring from each stolen moment by his side, every ounce of pleasure. But the words remained stuck in your throat.

“How is that possible? You were the crown princess, the chosen heir of your uncle. You would have been given everything you desired.”

“But that I was also the Bride of the Moon, it eclipsed and dictated my whole existence. I’m sure it changed drastically what any other princess before me experienced. My chambers were large, yes, but barren despite the decoration. The rituals were to be performed at dusk, and ended deep into the night. The temples themselves were always eerily lit with moonlight. I couldn't stand to be left caged that way for too long a time, so I have rarely slept, in order to enjoy the crash of the waves and the winds blowing from the sea to the shore.

“So I say I’m comfortable where I am now, beside you. There is enough room for me to stay in quiet contemplation or when playing with my toys. Whether out here, on the veranda, in your office or the bedchamber.” Briefly you were tempted to ask him for a pet cat to dote on but you refrained. “I do have a request, Your Majesty. Please carve something for me?”

“Would you like another toy?”

“I have been thinking, how do I cherish the flowering branch you've given me for the rest of our lives, when it is meant to dry out within mere days? Then the answer came to me – in the image of a roost for my family of birds. I have the father, the mother and their child. All that's left before their happiness is complete, is a little home for the three of them.”

“Consider it done.”

He nuzzled your shoulder. You crept closer and closer to him. This went on until you were perched on his lap. You would have enjoyed spending a lazy day with him on the riverside, wrapped in his arms, but you were more interested in something else.

“Last night –” You felt him stiffen. “– you told me you had another wedding gift for me. Besides your lovely little boat, and the branch of flowers, what else did you have in store? May I receive it now? I don't mean to be so impatient with you; I can't help but anticipate what it could be.”

“Before I do there is something I must tell you.”

“Tell me, Your Majesty?”

“Yes. I need you to know that no matter what transpires between the two nations now, and in the future, you’ve become my person, so I will take responsibility of you, protect you. Even if it dissolves to outright war...whether I lay siege to the cities or burn them down...you’ve become my queen, therefore an empress of Khemet, and I’ll keep you from this suffering you’ve told me time and again you hate to witness. These conflicts spawned by the greed of men and kings alike, I cannot apologize to you, so instead I will shield you from it.”

There was a certain sense of horror surging through you all of a sudden at the ambiguous declaration. “…Seto?”

“I do not make promises I cannot keep.”

“What do you plan to do?” you gasped.

“They are not words you will like to hear.”

“I had believed you said we would become equals in this marriage. If what you said you truly meant, then it is my right to know.”

He seemed pensive for a moment, then just as instantly, he had ambushed you with a question. “Are you aware of all the political ramifications of your marriage to me?”

You needed a short while to think, as this was only brought up once during the entire duration of Pharaoh's rather aggressive courtship of you. Most of your time with him was spent on heated exchanges – both pleasurable and not. “The Holy Empire had reneged on the diplomatic agreement established with the Black Lands, thus resulting in your demand of a – a compensation,” you summarized. You felt ill, reducing your marriage to him in this way. “Had Delphini not complied, Khemet would have staged a militaristic retaliation.”

“Delphini did not comply.”

“I...was there something wrong with the offered talent? Did one of the artisans flee?”

“If you recall, I asked for fifty women and twenty artisans. They only completed half of the bargain.”

“Am I chopped liver? Do I mean nothing to you?”

“I am not acquainted with the turn of phrase. But I understand you are asking if your voluntary sacrifice was meaningless. And to that I answer, yes and no. Meaningless because, regardless of your intents, your uncle’s motive was to avoid providing a potential enemy with an important resource. Your sacrifice was, shall we say, a convenient out of the agreed upon Tribute. He never had amity in mind.”

“Then...why did you accept me?” you asked, which was the most important question. “Whyever would you have me, when I was far from what you truly wanted?”

“How would you know what it is I truly want?” he chided. “Your presence that day was what made this mockery of a Tribute meaningful.”

You gasped. “Seto...”

He kissed you sweetly on your lips. “I have you, but the facts stand. Your uncle cheated me, and thus I will repay the favour a hundred fold. I need to know, if you are against this.” He raised his head and fervently searched your expression. “And if there is anything I can offer you, to change your mind. Your support would be appreciated greatly, but whether I have your blessing or not I will not be deterred from course.

“The merchants of Delphini had approached you directly, before the releasing of the lanterns. I want to know what they said to you.”

Did that truly bother him so much? Their words had been about what you expected, so you'd barely acknowledged their unsolicited opinions. But Pharaoh looked very cross about this, so you obliged his curiosity.

“The citizens of Delphini do not accept what I've become, is what they said,” you explained. “The merchants look down on me. They think me a traitor, to the country and to the moon god. They do not understand why I have offered myself in place of fifty women. Presumably, those living on Genova feel the same way, as they claimed. But I do not care for what they think. Not now, not ever, so please...don't hold their beliefs against them.”

He became visibly frustrated. “As I said to you long ago, your disloyalty to the very nation you acted as representative of, is unsettling. And yet I have resolved to invest my trust in you.” He placed another soft kiss upon your lips. “If that is what they truly feel...if this moon god of yours does not approve of our union, then I do not care for him either. He is not worthy of my respect, much less your worship and devotion,” he whispered, his edges in his voice smoothened.

He'd spoken aloud the very same poisonous thoughts you had allowed to fester within your mind for many years. You already knew, this was his way of removing any lingering loyalty you might have for Delphini. Did you have any hope of resisting? Did you even want to?

“My final wedding gift to you, my queen, is your own autonomous source of income,” he said suddenly, breaking the spell he'd woven around you. “Half a day's ride to the North is Nezusir, otherwise known as the City of Glaze. As of your coronation, you have become the sole landlord, and everyone living within has become your tenants. With this you will not have to rely on my word in order to purchase whatever you desire.”

“This isn't a simple monthly allowance?”

“No. I promised you, did I not? You would have your freedom. And if you manage your income wisely, you will grow wealthier, and soon nothing would be beyond your reach. Not even the traders from Delphini could refuse you then.”

“I do not want it,” you exclaimed, all the while regretting it. “This here — ” you touched his cheek with an adoring gaze “— you, you’ve given me everything I could possibly have wanted.” You hoped he would look upon you even more favourably than before, by acting with modesty.

“And still you think to deceive me.” He deflected your hand. “I grow weary of these repetitive arguments wherein we both know how they are resolved. Monetary freedom is now yours, your sentiments won't change what's been written and done.”

He was a baffling contradiction, in how tenderly he embraced you and how unmercifully he berated you, in the same instance.

The subject fully exhausted, you sat quietly in his arms while enjoying the music of the hand harp, wafting towards you from across the river. Pharaoh was just as quiet, holding you securely in the circle of his arms, lost in his own thoughts.

“My king... Seto,” you began shyly. “I am still awaiting your response to the question I posed earlier.”

“What was it?”

“Well...” you faltered. Mayhap it was only a dream, but the curiosity was eating away at you terribly. “You asked me if I would like to be a mother. And I want to know...how? How would you make me a mother?” Suddenly it was as if all of the questions you'd always pondered since you were fourteen were bubbling to the surface. “How does a woman become pregnant?”

His disbelieving cerulean eyes darted across your face, searching your expression thoroughly, as if your inquiry was the very pinnacle of absurdity. You could almost see into his mind, his very thoughts racing, calculating, recalibrating. “...How much do you already know?” he probed after having apparently reached a conclusion.

“I –” you swallowed, your throat suddenly having gone bone dry. “I read that a man and a woman must have intercourse with one another under the cover of night, to have a child,” you lied. In truth, you stumbled upon this knowledge in secret, whilst eavesdropping on a conversation between your nursemaid Lady Agatha and her sister. You weren't supposed to know this much. “I also know that it is a painful experience for the woman. That is the extent of my knowledge. I suppose what I am truly asking you is...what does inter-course entail?”

Not only Lady Agatha, but many gossiping women of the castle had exchanged stories of a similar nature with their peers. This act was a tedious and highly unpleasant chore, they'd said. Only the men could derive anything worthwhile, and women were pressed by society and religion to fulfill their wifely duty.

These hints to the darker side of marital life prompted you to find some means to avoid intercourse entirely, and so in your spare time you'd secretly researched myths and legends of so-called “virgin births”; women who have had children without aid from a male. You could not share your findings with those suffering wives, or even ask aid from Irene and the eight other female attendants who'd been assigned to you. Even if you'd wanted it, this study of virgin births was skimming the murky surface of the bog known as forbidden alchemy.

Here at last, you wanted a direct answer to the question that plagued you for years. If not from your husband, then who else could you entrust yourself to?

“It isn't required to do so at night, and it is only painful for the woman if her husband is a poor lover,” he said, his voice deep and spine chilling. “There is some unavoidable discomfort and pain in the beginning, but afterwards...I can't speak for myself, as I've never experienced it before, but in time you'll see that many lovers fall victim to its powerful thrall. Men and women alike have been proven to lie, steal, coerce, commit adultery, and even resort to outright murder of their rivals.”

“All of that, just to have children?” Needless to say, you were baffled by this reveal. “I understand the importance of handing down one's legacy to future heirs. But do they all really want children that badly?”

“The children have only secondary importance, in the minds of those enslaved by their own desires. It is the act of intercourse itself which they betray their own morals and ransom their souls for.”

His words were like a flash of lightning during a summer storm. Now you finally understood why this was considered a sin. It seemed to be the root of all the world's evil, from the way he'd described it to you. Intercourse could transform men into monsters.

“When the opportunity to have children comes, I swear to you...that I will take care of you.”

“I –” you had difficulty swallowing the words of adamant refusal that had formed on the tip of your tongue. Hadn't you learned your lesson by now?

...

The gowns had come to be more elaborate, the one this morning woven from iridescent silk in a shimmering ivory, and embroidered painstakingly with golden orange blossoms. It danced like the river water catching the first morning sunlight, and though you folded your arms over your chest, that it was sheer wouldn’t offend you. After all, it was for your husband to see, and you wanted him to see...didn’t you?

It was becoming of a young queen, you had heard Pharaoh’s handmaidens speak amongst themselves, the sweet decoration the dress boasted, while all at once regal. You were yet to learn their names, though by now they were all well acquainted with your temperament and treaded carefully around you. They scattered at a spoken word and cleared the room at the turn of your gaze.

You were the proud foreign queen who made her handmaidens disappear into the night and drew blood from the bloodless king in an attempt on her future husband’s life.

Likely, they thought you cruel, stubborn and also a bit mad. And why wouldn’t they?

“It’s awfully lonely,” you told your husband as he returned from his morning bath. “When you’re away at court. They don’t speak to me you know. They think I’ve lost my mind. I...miss them.”

He approached you with heavy steps to where you sat at the foot of the bed.

“Who?”

“Your Majesty?”

“Who thinks my wife has lost her mind?” he demanded, towering before you. “Who do you miss?”

“My old handmaidens. I miss Irene...and Nepthys and Lapis. Your handmaidens believe I’m deranged. With good reason too I suppose.”

He exhaled a deep breath. “Would you like them back?” he asked, reaching a hand to comb through your hair.

“Very much,” you said in a small voice. “Forgive me for displeasing you. Inevitable, I suppose I’ve brought this upon myself.”

“It’s all in the past,” he said. “As for your old handmaidens, I’ll see to it that they’re returned to your service.” He sighed, placing his palm on your crown. “What could I have expected marrying a child like you?”

“Don’t tease me, Your Majesty,” you said with a playful pout.

“What led you to believe I was teasing?” he returned, just as playfully, though he concealed it well.

It was then you swept your hair past your shoulders, revealing to him the translucent bodice only obscuring your skin underneath with the rolling embellishments sparsely sprawled across the front.

Looking up at him expectantly, you offered him a coy smile before hiding your demure expression under your falling curtain of hair.

His long index finger tucked your hair to sit behind your ear.

“And maybe you’re not a child,” he purred, persuading you with his advances to lay down over the bed.

Splayed under him, with a tilt of your chin he brought your lips to meet his. His lips tasting softly of citrus, you latched yourself closer to him. Your husband’s hand slipped between your bodies; up from your waist, his thumbs caressed you over your dress in search of the peaks of your breasts. The soft buds had tightened before he had pressed his thumbs flat against them, rising up to meet him.

Your moans broke past his lips and he lifted from you, pressing a fleeting kiss to your cheek. The first of many, he made a trail down to your collarbone, then from there, he relieved his fingers and placed his lips over your elongated buds.

You arched into him, pulling him in by his hair.

For once, it was him who pulled away.

“I have to read over the month's reports and attend a meeting with the inner council,” he said.

You sat up with him.

“But I don’t want you to go,” you told him, apprehending his wrist. “The wedding was only yesterday and you’re already returning to your official duties? Is presiding over court so great? Would you rather spend time in the presence of disagreeable ministers than be with me?”

“The crown isn’t some pretty bauble you take off when the day isn’t convenient.” He was bitterly forthright. “When you’re in better health, I’ll expect you to accompany me. You’re also welcome to come with me today.”

You paused to consider his offer. “If it’s this afternoon, can I play with the boat you carved me first?”

“Does the toy amuse you that much?” You nodded eagerly, looking up at him. “So long as you look presentable for court when you attend, I see no harm. As I’ve said, it is up to your discretion what you do with your spare time.”

“Thank you...Seto.”

A faint promise of a smile lingered on his lips, and once again he rested his palm over your crown. Then just as he had said, he retreated to his study, leaving you to your thoughts. You wondered why the view of his receding back made you feel so lonely.

…

There was a gathering of handmaidens behind you at a distance as you kneeled, leaned over the water’s edge. You were half way to making up your mind to dismiss them, but solitude had lost its appeal. You supposed you had indulged in too much of it; for the most part not by choice. Even the shadow of someone standing close by had suddenly become comfort enough, even if their half hushed whispers were harrowing.

“Even with that temper, she’s still a child,” a maid observed as you plucked the boat out of the pond and wound the golden key for the third time.

“It’s probably why His Majesty spares so much patience for her when she’s so unlikable,” another responded.

Did they think you were deaf?

“All that beauty wasted on such a thorny temperament. Did you know, one of the servants became injured because of her selfishness?”

“My friend swears by the light of Amun-Ra that there were scores of papyrus in His Majesty's royal office, the queen's name written all over. As if he'd been driven mad by a love curse!

“Surely that is the reason why Pharaoh Seti ignored a good woman such as Priestess Merneith, in favour of such a horrible –”

“Hush! Or do you want to suffer the same fate as her first handmaids?”

You glanced past your shoulder but you couldn’t seem to dispute their disparaging remarks. Bunching your skirts into your fists, you dipped your toes into the water. The glassy surface seemed to bend before giving way, and you descended the stone stairs with careful steps, just as you had done the night before.

This venturing past the edge alerted the handmaids and all at once they rushed to be at your side. One possessed the audacity to arrest you by your upper arm.

“Your Highness, you mustn’t!” the middle aged woman called.

“I mustn’t what?” you questioned, tone teetering on the outskirts of patience.

“You have your whole life ahead of you!” she pleaded. “Think of how His Majesty would feel! Think of his unborn child!”

“I’m not going to drown myself! I’m going after my boat.” You jerked your hand from her clutch and made haste to follow after the sail boat navigating reedy waters, heading for the currents. You waded through the lotus stalks and full blossoms, hand outstretched for your beloved ship.

You could still hear their protests, though their resolve seem to wane. Breaking into a swim, the long skirts clung to your limbs, and your anklets weighed your strokes. Eventually, you could no longer hear their calls.

And it wasn’t important; all that was, your ship was at the tip of your fingers. You turned it’s direction, setting its course back for the riverbank.

Watching it sail away, you paddled the water in place to lower yourself onto the mossy-stone floor, only to find the floor taken from under you. Suddenly, the shore seemed so far, the flailing servants miniature, standing no taller than the papyrus growing along the sandstone banks, their moving lips silent.

It wasn’t daunting, you had on many nights, when the tides were calm, snuck away to swim in the many coves surrounding Genova. It wasn’t; at least not at first. Then the unyielding arms of the river current wrapped around you and wouldn’t let go, and the furious beating of your legs only cramped your calves before they surrendered to the sweeping undercurrent.

You grasped at the very water pulling you to the river, feeling your weight held down by the coursing waters. Your head was no longer above the water; air mixed with the river water in each breath. It was eerily familiar, the feeling of air catching fire in your lungs; you could almost feel his hands tightening around your throat.

And yet, you thought of him. If you could have called his name, you would have.

Then something pulled you harder than the river current, it drew you to the river bank, and through calm waters carried you up the steps to the warm stone.

In between paroxysms of coughing and retching, they weighed you with a heavy cloak. You were too transfixed to cry, in that moment still only beginning to keep pace with the reality of what had transpired.

Pasted against your skin, the dress concealed next to nothing, you saw, but in your delirium, and growing gratefulness, it only crossed your mind to thank your saviour.

Your eyes heavy where they had fallen over your trembling limbs, you crawled across from where they had knelt you to throw your arms around them. They held you. “Seto,” you whimpered.

“Are you alright?” he asked, and perhaps even before that moment, by the feel of his physique in your embrace and his scent, you had understood it wasn’t him, but as you yourself had realized weeks ago, except through intangible and obscure details, you found it impossible to tell the two men apart.

His palm weighed heavy on your crown before he soothed it back.

As you looked up to him, his features darkened by the blinding desert sun, you confirmed it indeed was not Seto. And yet the man before you didn’t make sense either; his presence begged many answers. So for a moment you questioned, had you actually drowned, and was this the after life?

He repeated his question, with your name this time.

“Who are you?” You sought to confirm.

“Do you not remember — ”

“After all this time I’ve spent waiting...and looking for you —do not stand there before me and mock my anguish!” You couldn't care for the servants holding their gazes unbroken with unfaltering impertinence at what appeared to be an intimate reunion. “How dare you come only now?” It was difficult not to surrender to the tears. “Do you know how much I looked for you?” It was difficult not to give into the desperation; it was as tempting as a deep diver giving into the burning of his lungs from the breath he’d been holding, and allowing himself a new lungful of fresh air.

“Crown princess — ”

“I’m a queen now,” you said in a voice which threatened to disappear, “did you know? An empress. Not in my own right and through very little of my own choice but — I’m married now did you know?”

“Yes I — Allow me to escort you inside,” he said. His eyes shifted past your shoulder, unbeknownst to you, and he closed his cape tighter over your chest. “I would like to offer my wishes to His Majesty and — ”

“I asked you if you knew!” you shouted. Then just as soon as it had reached a fever pitch, it fell to a whisper, “Mahaado where have you been?” You placed a hand on his chiseled cheek — his face had not aged a day. “You never came back for me. I thought of you everyday — ” you shook your head in disappointment “— did you ever think of me?”

He motioned to answer but you heard your name called from the steps of the royal mansion. Over your shoulder you saw His Majesty, now dressed in all of his regalia, white tunic under a deep indigo robe pouring over the stairs. All the gold and jewels weighing his finery glittered under the sun, but his expression waited obscured by shadow.

He repeated your name. “Come here,” he commanded, outstretching his hand to you from afar.

You shook your head, fingers latching tighter to Mahaado’s robes.

Most of the handmaidens in His Majesty’s service had gathered around the courtyard opening to the Nile, from the corner of your eyes you saw high prince Wei Shiren and Vizier Sennefer.

“I said, come here,” your husband repeated. He made to close the distance, conceding a measly step in your direction.

“No,” you said softly.

Mahaado spoke your name gently. “I need you to go to him now, please,” he said.

Your brows drew together. “I just found you, I don’t want to.”

“Your Highness, there are many eyes watching.”

“Yes I suppose that’s why you were always looking over your shoulder each time we spoke. That’s why you left me behind wasn’t it, because there were too many eyes?”

Both men repeated your name, one after the other, with varying degrees of severity.

Perhaps you had romanticized the reunion; had hoped for a more warm welcome, something less lukewarm and hostile.

Soon your husband was by your side and his arm closed decisively around your arm. Mahaado brought himself to kneel. He offered him some Khemetian greeting you could not decipher but in its intonations sounded very grand, as with everything concerning the young emperor.

“You should offer your respects to your new queen also,” your husband said. He placed emphasis on his next words. “She is my wife now after all.”

From where he knelt, Mahaado bowed his head low again. “Greetings to the new queen. Congratulations on your union to His Majesty, Your Highness. May the gods bless you both with a long reign and many children.”

It was disarmingly sincere and all at once impersonal. It was a practiced response following the many such wishes received last night to accept it. “Thank you,” you said, tone reflecting his. “May we indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Her dress: https://pin.it/rbsf5yo5w5pop3


	14. The Longing Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Est: Oops, it wasn't supposed to take this long to get the next chapter out but Wanderlust and I needed to do some serious reorganization of the plot. We hope this was at least worth the wait!

 

 

So it went, for days and days of service in Her Highness. The handmaids would speak here, converse there with their fellow servants, joking or jesting, telling a tale or having a laugh. And as they did so, they could feel, hear Her Highness’s anger and disdain build. The young woman who had arrived with stars in her eyes was gone, leaving only the bitter empress in her place. A beauty amongst beauties, certainly, but one of such rage and sorrow it was difficult to remember the woman of heart and naivety that treasured her toy birds and enjoyed simple dishes.

 

Empress Satieh.

 

“Empress Satieh,” you whispered once, as they dressed you. “A slave to suffering.”

 

Such anger, such self-pity- it was unbecoming! Unbecoming of the Queen and Mother of Khemet, of one who had been adopted into His Majesty's lineage, who could influence his court to her whim with naught but a whisper! Who had seen wonders such as never before seen nor ever seen again.

 

“Who are you to judge me?” you had said, your short temper come to the fore. “You, a girl satisfied with her cage.” Your rebuttal as painful as a scorpion sting. “A cage handed unto you by your father and forefather.”

 

 

“Don't be disheartened,” murmured another servant girl as you trounced off to play with your newly acquired toy ship. “I have faith that one day, the gods will shine the light of truth into His Majesty's fogged gaze, and he will divorce this horrible girl once he realizes what she is.”

 

“Do you think so?” asked Ara with much doubt, her broken arm aching. Many of the girls who served His Majesty believed her to be his favourite; he was kinder to her above all else. “For a time I had thought him impervious to evil. But that morning...when Her Highness threw the basin and hit me...he did nothing.”

 

“He scolded the queen, and did nothing,” agreed her friend. “Perhaps there is some truth to the rumour of a love curse...”

 

All of the handmaids in His Majesty's employ were instructed to keep careful watch over his wife, but Ara could barely pay attention to your demands to jump into the lotus pond in order to retrieve your boat. All she could see, was His Majesty barely giving her injured arm a passing glance when before, not long ago, he would exchange a word with her and her younger brother. Twas as if what little kindness he had saved up was being sucked dry...all because of that woman he made into his wife...

 

Panicked shouts startled her back into the present. “What has happened? Where is Her Highness?”

 

The other handmaiden pushed her towards the direction of Blackstone. “Quickly, Ara! You must inform His Majesty that his wife has just thrown herself into the Nile!”

 

...

 

 

Deep in the bowels of Blackstone, the dreaded underground cells which promised no hope of escape for its occupants, First Lieutenant Algernon of the Holy Empire noted Pharaoh Nehktsethenes' arrival. Strangely enough, he seemed to have arrived with a retinue of guards much less than previous visits over the decade, presenting a deceptively amiable front. Those guards however were still considerable and fearsome, bedecked as they were in skysteel and white hoods. Algernon was convinced these men were no mere mortals; their expressions unsettlingly devoid of any humanness. Just like their master.

 

“Lieutenant,” greeted the ruler of the desert savages as his men slowed to a halt. “I see you continue to thrive in your cell, as would a barren weed. How disappointing.”

 

“Did you expect me to give up, Nekhtsethenes?” spat the former right hand – and sworn battle brother – to the original crown prince of the Holy Empire. “After you savages had set my ship aflame, stolen the women and put my men to torture and death?” He laughed, in sudden remembrance. “My mistake. Your latest sobriquet is 'Emperor Seti', is it not? The Romantic Ruler, or so the guards call you as of late. I didn't know savages of the Dark Continent even held to marriage, conquering rapists you are. Did she come willingly to your bed or did you steal her from a farmstead you desert fuck?"

 

The white hooded men tensed at this, before Pharaoh himself waved the insults aside, a slight smile on his face. “She was offered to me as a gift, a token of submission to my Majesty, as is the custom. She came to me by way of her lord uncle, Virgilius Delphini. He was ever a generous man; he always did know what my heart would desire, that one.”

 

A most murderous look settled on his gaunt features, his fingers clenched tightly and seemingly set to charge the young emperor, shackles or no. “You lie,” Algernon said coldly. “You do not have her. You couldn't have.”

 

“She came to my bed a timid thing,” Seti said casually. “Afraid of beatings and biting and forcing... Virgilius gave her to me, and she gave me her promise to bear my children.”

 

“You lie,” repeated the once strapping, decorated young warrior almost faintly, blood rushing backwards in his veins from revulsion and terror. “She is not yours.”

 

“For a long time she was not,” agreed Seti. “But a show of kindness warmed her heart as it does any. I loved her tenderly, did not bite nor beat. Even when she begged me to release her, even when she held me at knifepoint, I only held her and wiped her tears.”

 

“You-”

 

“If you do not believe, then what of this? Just this morning she came to me, asking if I had slept well.”

 

“Gods,” cursed the man as he choked back his rage. He'd recognized the greeting – it was one exchanged between lovers in the Holy Empire. “What do you want from me, then? Or did you say all this to merely hurt me, as all the times you've done before?”

 

“In the name of your goddaughter,” intoned Pharaoh seriously. “In the mother of my children and the woman I love, I will ask you but once. Stand aside and leave for the east. Leave Delphini to their deaths, your Lightsworn zealots to their fate. This mercy I offer, for blames long held and in memory sweetly kept. Leave and live. For I will spare none who stand in my way.”

 

“You took my best friend's daughter,” responded the chained man in cold rage. “You raped her, and will rape her many times more until you have sired your accursed brood. You kept her from family and home. You plot to burn my people, my realm, my family. You raid across the lands as it suits you, because you think you have the right. Because you think your blood, the blood of a half-forgotten dead king gives you the right to wage war and take lives for your own goals. And you think I'll step away here? I'll let you do as you will? Why? Because you love my goddaughter? I loved her as well, you desert savage. And in her name, and the name of Valerian Delphini today, I'll make sure that you die slowly and painfully. For them and every man, woman and child you and your men have butchered across the lands.”

 

That was when the larger one of the two guards pulled back his arm and backhanded Algernon’s across his face with all his might. The force of the hit was enough to whip his head to the side. He tasted sticky copper in his mouth and spit it out into the dirt with derision. The irritation had returned to his eyes.

 

Then, a hand shot out and wrapped around Algernon’s throat as he was slammed headfirst back into the wall.

 

Having never released his neck following impact, Seti’s grip slowly tightened. Tight enough to leave bruises, a little reminder of this encounter that would stay with the dishonoured lieutenant for awhile longer.

 

“How quaint, you've deluded yourself into thinking you will be able to escape. I will make sure you die first, swine, even if I have to keep guard of your cell until I can get that right,” his fierce blue gaze bored down into Algernon’s eyes from inches away as his cold tone continued on, “I only wonder what sort of death should be granted to the likes of you.

 

“You had after all ignored your closest friend's request for assistance, abandoned him to die, fleeing Southbound towards my realm. Why would a lieutenant so independent of his own master feel as if he had the right to grieve him, or contemplate vengeance on behalf of his daughter?

 

“Your death will be painful and humiliating, that I promise.”

 

For a while, the prison was silent. And then, “A thousand pardons, sire, for interrupting.” Algernon could barely see, but a third guard had arrived just outside the bars. He felt the fingers around his neck loosen slightly. “One of your girls, Ara, has an urgent message for you...about Her Highness.”

 

...

 

The scene before you waited suspended for a long moment, holding its breath. From the handmaidens to the foreign prince and Sennefer, they all seem to wait for some resolution of the gaze the emperor held with his right hand. It wouldn’t come.

 

Sennefer ordered the on-watchers away, it was a delayed response, his own curiosity which only in such rare occasions betrayed his humanness, getting the better of him. The courtyard emptied with the lingering echo of shuffling sandal on sandstone. Wei Shiren complied without much disagreement, led away by Sennefer himself, though hidden from each other, their gazes surreptitiously stole back to the scene.

 

Words you did not know to decipher were exchanged; whether they were angry, or if those were the natural intonations of this Khemetian language you could not hope to know.

 

Suddenly Mahaado’s expression reflected your husband’s and he rose to match his height. 

 

“I’ll be taking my leave for now then,” Mahaado said, addressing you by your birth name.

 

At the second syllable your husband interrupted, his words still foreign. Mahaado bowed his head, addressing you again as His Majesty’s queen. There was distance, a swirling undercurrent of coldness.

 

Seto left no room for defiance or even an objection. Swiftly, as he always was, whisking you to the veranda on the other side of his chambers, a firm hand around your shrinking shoulders even as he led you through the bedchamber.

 

He released you to tumble back against the chaise lounge inches from where the sun touched the porch from over the jutting ceiling. The gossamer curtains sailed the wind as it always did. He stood over you, eyes molten.

 

He said nothing. For a very long time.

 

“Your Majesty you worry me,” you said to him, reaching a hand out to grasp his robe.

 

It was a delayed response, perhaps one which had required second thought. Forcing you to stand, he tore Mahaado’s cloak away, revealing your wet dress clinging to prickled milky skin. He draped his heavy royal robes over you.

 

“I’m expected at court,” he said slowly. “While I’m away, I hope you ask yourself what it was that you hoped to accomplish this morning.” He was solemn, harsher words, a more severe indignation bitten back between a clenched jaw to parody this transposed calm. You were no fool. You could tell composure from warning. “That you are young, I will no longer see as an excuse for your immaturity, your lack of foresight. You will only bring ruin to yourself. Your careless disposition is not fitting of an empress of this kingdom. Reflect on what is appropriate behaviour for a woman of your stature...reflect and act accordingly. I will not look the other way a second time.”

 

He handed you one cerulean blue earring. You remembered that he had said one half of the pair was to be worn by the emperor’s wife, while he wore the other. You remembered its weight. It had not changed. You clutched it in your palm and wrapped your fingers around it.

 

“I did not mean to anger Your Majesty,” you replied, your words quiet, always meaning to show your subservience. You hoped it would appease him. That your address of him by title was only friction would not be apparent to you. “He was a dear friend of mine once.”

 

His eyes tore away from the distance to you. “I tire of your words which lack discretion,” he said. Tone the crack of a whip. “A woman in a position to bring an empire to ruin with the fall of a word, I think should not use them so liberally.” His features harder than the marble statues lining your home palace, expression darker than the sea at night, his eyes were not eyes but voids looking into your soul.

 

You felt invaded, violated, and yet you could do nothing; not move, nor look away.

 

Then his words grew rougher, no longer contained entirely under a placid veil. The sharp edges beginning to show. “When I return from council, I hope you can enlighten me on why you tried to take your own life, and why you then chose to spurn me before half the palace by choosing the side of a high priest of my own court who was not your husband!”

 

“Your Majesty!” you countered, nonplussed. “Your words bemuse me!”

 

“As your actions do I.”

 

“My king!” you begged, clinging on to him, searching his expression for an inkling of clarity. “My life? Why would — what would — what has convinced you I am deserving of such an accusation?”

 

“Will you not conduct yourself properly?” he barked, transfixing you. “Stop writhing this way and that as if a disgruntled child and act your age.

 

“I do not care to untangle your motives for the hundredth time. It doesn’t seem as if it would be the last time either.

 

“I have summoned the royal physician to examine you. He will be here any moment.”

 

As he began to pry your fingers, apprehension and fear transformed to indignation. “This is so unfair!” If he was going to deprive you of the company of Mahaado, the least of what was owed to you was the comfort of his presence. “I almost just drowned. I almost drowned and all I could pray for was you.”

 

He turned to leave. “Don’t hope to garner my sympathy by manipulating what has happened. Throwing yourself into the water and fearing death in the moment it drowns you is something you’ve brought unto yourself. Don’t look to me for refuge after a punishment of your own morbid devising. If you had any thought me you would never have done such a thing to begin with. You’ve disappointed me Satieh. Try to salvage what is left of my opinion of you before it’s truly too late.”

 

“How is the river's current carrying me away something of my own devising? And who else am I to look to for refuge? For affection? Look at me when I’m speaking to you! Who else do I go to if not my husband?” He still would afford you nothing more than the rigid sight of his turned back. “Seto won’t you look at me?” you screamed.

 

He still wouldn’t.

 

Shedding his royal robe carelessly on to the floor, you lunged forward, with all your might swinging your leg as far as you could balance as you aimed for the back of his knee. It would have inflicted more pain with the hard edge of a sandal, but even barefoot, you had held no expectation of it making impact.

 

The stiff jab as it connected curled your toes, spiralling a throbbing wave of pain up your arch. He remained unmoved.

 

Though it had earned his attention.

 

Breathing heavily you awaited his returning blow. Feeling anything was preferable to this numbness he left you. You hated to be ignored.

 

As he marched towards you with purposeful steps, you inadvertently stumbled away, though surely with that unwavering glare you held against him, in that moment you believed you were holding your ground.

 

He towered over you, easily. His eyes had hardened. Holding a tense jaw, you had been convinced he was ready to strike, when his eyes fell away to your chest. He was intending to say something, but your small fist hitting his chest distracted him a second time.

 

“Go on!” you told him, your voice only half a cry. You threw your other fist at him. He did nothing to catch it. You fists pounded him over and over, now hysterical. “Choke me again, strip me of my clothes and titles and whip me, order for a thousand lashings until I’m bruised and bleeding. Punish me for offending the great son of Ra,” you screamed. “But look at me while you hurt me, always look at me! Never look away from me, never turn your back! Do you understand?” It was shrill, sounding less human and more the screech of a banshee calling for death. He grappled your wrists, but still you made all the motions to hit him.

 

“Get a hold of yourself,” he ordered.

 

“If I’m burning on a pyre, at least you’ll be looking at me until the last moment won’t you? I’ll have your attention! Don’t leave me to be forgotten and rot in this place. I’d rather die while you’re still looking at me!”

 

Your face was a sheet of hot tears attempting to sooth reddening cheeks, threatening to burst.

 

“Have you lost your mind?” your husband, the great emperor growled. “How could I ever stand by and watch the execution of my own wife.”

 

“Look at me!” you screamed over and over, his words only noise in the background. “Look only at me!” His voice blended with the coursing Nile, and all the birds in the distance. It was only noise.

 

“Has the cold seeped into your brain?” he asked. Trapping you against his body with one arm, he reached behind you to undo the fastening of your dress.

 

You resisted violently, more so than he had been expecting from a girl so much smaller than him. You thrashed and writhe, and your screams accused him of murder.

 

At the end of his patience or whatever was left of it, without warning he lifted you off your feet and threw you over his shoulder, still gripping your wrists with one hand while he clapped the other firmly on your backside to hold you in place. Your high pitched shriek went unheard as Pharaoh carried you inside.

 

His wide shoulder was as hard as iron under your stomach. Your protests and begging went unheeded, your kicks and flailing punches when you finally wrenched your hands free had not the slightest effect on him. He let the bed catch your fall before crawling over you in all his silk robes and finery. He had tired of your stubborn dress clinging to you and tore it apart between his fists.

 

Your screams amplified, legs kicking him away. The guards rushed in ushered by the royal physician. Your cries in your Delphinian mother tongue was alien to them, but the sight to them was plain. In a heady fit,  the hot blooded young emperor was forcing himself on his much younger queen against her wishes.

 

“Your Majesty!” the elderly physician beseeched in Khemetian. It was one of the few words you had learned in your short time here. It was all you understood before his entreaty dissolved to nonsense.

 

In waves behind him, his disciples fell to the ground prostrating themselves. “Your Majesty!” they echoed pleadingly. Their second wave of pleas again lost to you.

 

As Seto turned away to behold the nuisance that was splayed out on the floor of his bedchamber, you strung together again familiar words.

 

“You’re still not looking at me,” you said accusingly, your feverish bout calming.

 

“I’ve been looking at you this whole time,” he replied, before beginning to address the healers with a thunderous voice. Sharp sounds, harsh pauses, it was all you could grasp of the language, but it always sounded different when your husband spoke it.

 

“They wish to examine you,” he explained to you finally, motioning to separate from you. It was almost a whisper. “If they ask you how many times we consummated our marriage, give them a reasonable count.”

 

“What?”

 

To him, you looked afraid, clinging on to his sleeves with weak fingers.

 

“They will ask you,” he said, speaking slower now, irritation stretching between words, “how many times I made love to you. How many times I gave you my seed. Unless your wish is to perform the act with me under the watchful eye of a council of high priests, give them a reasonable count.”

 

Except, what was a reasonable number? You were still recovering from your hysteria. Only half of his words made sense. It was desirable for a man to be virile, was it not what he had taught you?

 

“I’ll leave her to you,” he told the physician. Then to you, “I’m expected at court.”

 

“Please don’t leave me!” you called to your husband, and when your fingers grasping at his robes weren’t enough, you locked your arms around his waist, latching on to him bodily. The reaction from the healers ranged from shocked to petrified. No one would dare to defy the emperor so boldly. The previous display only added to the confusion. “I don’t think I could be without you.”

 

“Satieh...” he sighed, attempting to remove you from him.

 

“Please,” you whimpered in a small voice. “I do not know any of these men.”

 

“I’ll send high priestess Mana directly to you,” he replied.

 

“No!” you protested. “No, I can’t be without you. I refuse to be without you.”

 

A long while stretched in silence. “Fine,” you then heard his reluctant voice. “Wait outside. I will be accompanying my wife.”

 

…

 

“Was His Majesty good to you last night?” the healer treaded carefully in his inquiry, always glancing back to your husband standing ominously with his arms crossed against the corner of the room.

 

“Yes,” you spoke timidly, your head held low. “He took very good care of me.” Your fingers raked against the skirt of your dress on your lap; such vile and crude things these were to discuss so openly.

 

“Was he...successful in giving you his seed?”

 

You nodded, eyes always on your lap.

 

“How many times?” the elderly man asked.

 

Curling your fingers, you pretended to count. “Twenty — twenty two times,” you said shyly. You looked to your husband, he donned an expression a cross between concerned and upset. Was it too low? “Or...perhaps,” you quickly corrected, “perhaps that’s when I lost count.”

 

“More than twenty two times?” the physician sought to clarify. His head moved between you and your husband, slowly, as if it was too difficult to comprehend.

 

You did not miss the fleeting expressions of shock which passed through the faces of yours and his handmaidens. Their eyes bulged out three sizes large, even as they held their heads bowed.

 

“Is something the matter?” you asked him.

 

“Uh no — no of course not. A feat us mere mortals could not hope to accomplish; while impressive and certainly assuring news for the realm, in high doses, it has the potential to be lethal,” he said.

 

“What can be?”

 

“His Majesty’s seed, it can be harmful to Your Highness’s and in time your unborn child’s health. We must have you cleansed.”

 

“Cleansed?” you asked, your agitation growing.

 

“A herbal bath,” the elderly physician clarified, reaching for your pulse. His fingers were were coarse sandpaper on your smooth wrist; signs of wear, the decades of skin sanded on rough stone pestles had taken the shape of peeling and blistered skin which had permanently hardened in place. “The aroma of the herbs oils may be pungent, but I must ask Your Highness to bear with it.”

 

You looked to Seto. He looked impassive.

 

It couldn’t smell any worse than this examination chamber did; a thick vapour of old herbs and rotting oils bound together by an unshakable moistness suffocating the space.

 

The prescribed bath was to be taken before the end of the morning, infused with a collection of flowering herbs and tree bark oils.

 

The physician’s next words exchanged with Seto were brief and foreign. Your husband acknowledged them with a slight nod of his head, before moving to escort you from the room into the hallway.

 

He left you in the corridor, asking you to follow the physician’s instructions.

 

“Bathe with me,” you invited your husband walking away from you with resolute strides. You snatched his hand into yours. You gave him a smile.

 

He had stopped now but he was quickly unravelling your hands. “As I’ve said, I am expected at court. It cannot be delayed any longer. Have your handmaidens accompany you.”

 

“No,” you said, stubbornly sinking your nails into his palms trying to leave you. “Come with me.”

 

It was tempting. Perhaps days prior, your delicate fingers wrapping his would have been all the persuasion he needed. Even your dispassion would have been encouraging to pursue you with more vigour. So was the ended chase the cause for his disinterest or had you succeeded somehow in landing a blow on his pride?

 

“Disobedience won’t endear me to you,” he scolded. “Go, now.”

 

You faltered under his intensity, perhaps even flinched away. Shame was burning behind your ears at the acute awareness that your retinue of handmaidens had followed you to witness this. Oh how they loved to see you fall.

 

How had you fallen out of favour with him the morning after your wedding? Had you cared too little for his regard that it had wasted away at the foot of your walls built to keep him out?

 

“I’ll wait for you in our chambers,” you said, shrinking like the receding tide. It seemed uncertain, as if asking him for permission.

 

“I’ll be late,” was all he said before leaving you.

 

“I’ll still wait,” you said under your breath. You watched his shrinking form wandering further in an out of shadow, his shadow growing and waning against the walls until even his footsteps quietened in the distance.

 

A daring handmaiden reached for your arm. “You must be bathed before the morning is over so the poison doesn’t linger in you, Your Highness,” she said.

 

“I know what he said,” you hissed, twisting and throwing her arm away from yours. She rubbed the offended appendage with her other hand, her head bowed low.

 

“My apologies, I did not mean to displease you,” she said quietly.

 

“You all make me sick!” you shouted. The sudden bout of anger a surprise even to you. It ambushed you and wrapped you all over.

 

You hated to be defeated.

 

...

 

It was an hour or two after you had found respite next to the fountains of the garden, this paradise on earth, when she had come slinking into your presence.

 

Dressed in jewelry of deep blue, High Priestess Merneith looked quite bewitching as she took a seat at the edge of your vision. Even as you glared at her, she patted your leg slightly.

 

“How did you-”

 

“I know your guards very well,” she said with a pleasing smile. “Your Highness. I thought you might appreciate company in your time of struggle.”

 

“High priestess,” you managed as calmly as you were able.

 

“There's no need for formality between us,” she insisted. “You did make it quite clear when we were last engaged that you preferred the company of His Majesty to your fellow maiden.”

 

You're not sure if she was being intentionally insulting; the self-satisfied grin she favoured told you she was. So you responded in kind.

 

“Last we spoke, there were no maidens to be found.”

 

She fumed at that, and despite yourself, you laughed a little.

 

“How are you feeling?” she asked, as your laughs died down. “When His Majesty announced you were not to be approached with matters of the kingdom due to your condition, it was so shocking. And His Majesty wouldn't let anyone but himself spend time with you; not even the royal physician was permitted to attend you directly until today...”

 

“I'm better than I was,” you truthfully said. There was no point in lying. This woman was Mana's peer in medicine. “Though surely you are faring worse. After all. I am Queen, and you are not.” You relished in her speechless indignation and quiet seething.

 

“A pity,” she said at last with a considering nod. “I'd always wanted to be. When I was younger, a few of us dared hope we'd be sent as handmaidens to His Majesty at court, that we'd have a chance to rise high through fortunate encounters with wealthy men from suitable families. And now most of my kinswoman are gone, having followed their husbands into war...worse still, it was not of their choosing.”

 

“My condolences for your loss.”

 

“It was horrible,” she said with a shiver. “My elder sister was one of the first to die. All for a man she'd been given to by our father.”

 

She looked at you a little more intently as she said that. If she was hoping you would express empathy, she would be waiting for a long, long time. You had no warm feelings to spare for this charlatan who played at camaraderie.

 

“You remind me of her – my dear elder sister.”

 

As she said those words, you got the meaning of her implication. Well, her saying them and leaning in to tuck your hair behind your ear.

 

You smacked her hand away.

 

“Please forgive this humble servant,” she said with a teasing smile as she pulled back. “I meant what I said, the first time we met. You really are quite adorable...those in charge of replicating your visage on the palace walls need not distort, or exaggerate your beauty – unlike most women of royalty.”

 

“What do you want from me?” you sighed, thoroughly tired from her word play and maneuvering.

 

“I am a high priestess in your service, Your Highness,” she demurred. “I could never be so humiliated so as to beg a boon of you. Not when you have suffered an arranged marriage – the same fate as that of my sisters.”

 

“But you're perfectly happy scheming to rise to the rank of Queen?” you shot back. “Through arranged marriage, no less.”

 

“At least until something better comes along,” she said with a shrug and a pout. “Why is it that women must be castigated for their ambition, while men must be so upheld?”

 

“I did not make the world, high priestess. Nor did I fashion its customs.”

 

“Yet you still look down upon me for my own desires. I wonder, is it because you so restrict your own?”

 

“You overstep.”

 

“Do I? We make a fine pair, Your Highness. A queen who hides from her duty, and a priestess whose responsibilities far exceed that of her rank. A tale fit for the songs. Would I truly make so poor an ally? Men who have taken lives walk amongst us yet I am the immoral one, the enemy? Your Highness, our petty rivalry is but a useless folly. Your father, crown prince Valerian, had two wives-”

 

“Continue that sentence, and it might very well be your last.”

 

“Would I truly be so terrible an ally?” Merneith persisted. “I was once the queen of Punt, a beautiful realm to the far South of Khemet. Even as I stand on ceremony as His Majesty's loyal priestess, my influence over my former dominion holds fast. Neither have I been remiss in building my reputation in the Black Lands – it was no exaggeration, my claims of having responsibilities far exceeding my rank. Would that not be worth my sordid past, as your beauty and political worth yours?”

 

You scoffed. “I hardly think our pasts compare.”

 

“Of course, of course. You merely scorned His Majesty's subjects, where as I overstepped my influence to enrich their lives. And so I am to be chastised, while you cheered.”

 

You remained silent, considering.

 

“Only a passing thought, Your Highness,” she said with a shrug. “But one to hold all the same. I would have an answer, before I leave you to rest.”

 

“An answer?”

 

“To the question: Will you aid me in arranging a union between His Majesty and I, so that I may lift the burden of the unwanted populace from your shoulders?” She held out her hand to you, palm upwards. “I swear an oath to never lay a finger on your husband, and thus securing your children's future as his designated heirs.”

 

Her gaze was arresting. She leaned closer once more, and you caught a whiff of saffron clinging to her skin.

 

“You would have His Majesty's loyalty and devotion, and be the sole mother of his royal heirs...and I would gain the unenviable position of Mother to His Majesty's subjects. This suits the both of us, does it not?”

 

Subconsciously your own hand reached out and grasped hers. A smile of sisterly affection graced her lips, her eyes gleamed with triumph.

 

Her hand was cold.

 

It was such a peculiar thing to remark. It wasn’t the sensation of your fingers reaching for your blade, the smallness of her wrist pinned under your fingers curled like a vise. It all seamlessly faded to a disconnection from consciousness. It all seemed so far, even now as your blade slipped between her fingers, weaving in then out, in then out, as if the needle of a practiced seamstress,  always finding its place. Even as you watched her and felt her flesh, her existence seemed so inconsequential. Human life in the hands of human life, it could never be decided, but you felt like a god. You felt you could decide whether she deserved to exist.

 

There was a brief moment of clarity where you understood your husband, why Seto felt lives were owed to him.

 

You recoiled. Your blade had never grazed her skin, never meant to draw blood, but sixteen attempts at mutilation, if it was not enough to traumatize a woman, it was certainly adequate to fuel her with enough indignation to abandon self preservation.

 

You could summon no more than dispassion. So this was what it felt like, you mused, to see the most wretched part yourself reflected in another.

 

Her cries of surprise and terror summoned the men, weapons drawn. They charged. They stopped.

 

No man wanted to be caught in a violent struggle between two of the most influential women in the realm.

 

“Were it truly my intent to harm you,” you said calmly as she freed her hand at long last and jumped away, holding it to her chest. “Your hair, which you are so proud of, would be flecked with blood; your lips as blue as dye.”

 

As Merneith stepped back, you brought the dagger closer, placing it strongly on the taller woman's cheek. She froze.

 

“Think to plot against me again,” you warned, “and I may yet use it on you. Perhaps high priestess Mana might find herself with new responsibilities.”

 

“Sixteen times,” she said to you in anger. “Sixteen times you chose to merely pretend at mutilation. Did you think me meek, that I would let it by?”

 

“I think you foolish,” you said instead. “That you would dare fly so close to the sun and burn your lovely and powerful wings which you take so much pride in.”

 

“I will have you executed-” she whispered harshly. “Exiled. Tortured.”

 

“You may leave now.”

 

“I'm not finished-”

 

“Leave.”

 

With a parting sneer Merneith did so, and with an almost nonchalant movement you sat back down, sheathing the blade.

 

Later as you prepared to leave the gardens however, you found a small spectacle awaiting you.

 

Palace servants and guards.

 

Or to be precise, a great deal of palace servants and guards. Watching you warily. Almost as one, they nod or murmur to themselves, and then...

 

Then they stand aside.

 

They stand aside, and clear your path.

 

...

 

“...Do you think sweat gathers at the crease of his back when he makes love? I couldn’t help but steal glances each time he unrobes before his baths. He’s so big — ”

 

A sharp slap fell over the young handmaiden’s upper arm. The congregation of maids fizzled with laughter, exchanging surreptitious glances amongst the circle.

 

Hand clasped over her lips one girl whispered, “Have you looked down there?” Her intrigue uncontainable, though all at once scandalized, she bit her lip in anticipation. 

 

“Of course not!” Ara defended. “I couldn’t dare! I meant his back and shoulders! Besides, what if he catches me?”

 

“Maybe he would finally catch you between those muscular arms and make love to you! God knows he has the appetite for it.”

 

Ara sighed, fixing your unsuspecting back with a gaze of envy. “Do you imagine him to be a gentle lover?”

 

“A man of war he is, our king and emperor,” another handmaiden intervened. “‘What about him appears gentle to you? All those muscles like a polished olive sculpture of a god. Look at how small she is. There’s hardly anything to even hold. He must dominate her in bed. Those rough hands slithering all over her as he makes her his. I can just imagine her pleas for him to be gentle with her.”

 

“A god he certainly he is,” a younger maid said, biting back her giggles. “Twenty two times,” she squealed. 

 

“...From a man like that. How does she manage to walk?”

 

Chattering monkeys. You had no ears to spare for them.

 

“And still you do not come,” you let out a long sigh. The cavernous ceiling sang back your own echo.

 

The clay wine decanter seemed lighter now, and you all at once heavy and light. Everything flickered with torchlight, the golden ceiling dancing with the pool’s wavy reflection. Another sigh floated up to join your many. You heard it again and again.

 

The goblet at your lips was empty again. But you had just filled it to the brim. With a disgruntled groan you tipped the decanter over the cup. It drained its last few droplets, barely filling the cup a quarter way.

 

Sliding further into the crystal water, your neck rested on the marble edge, “Another,” you demanded of the handmaids, holding out the empty decanter slung from your fingertips. One rushed to your side relieving you of it.

 

You were beginning to flush all over, even the water couldn’t seem to alleviate the feverish glow.

 

“Your Highness,” she said with caution, “perhaps we should retire for the night. You don’t look well.”

 

The poor girl could not have hoped to predict your next move, though sparing consideration for your rotten temper and insufferable disposition, as they called it, perhaps she should have.

 

Your inebriated reflexes succeeding hers, the decanter was snatched back from her hands. It hovered ominously above your head for only a moment in your outstretched arm, before it was thrown with all the force you could gather  some impressive distance to meet its end at the feet of your ladies in waiting. 

 

A collective gasp swept the cavern, followed by uncoordinated shuffling.

 

You threw your goblet, and a swift clap resounded over the dissonance. The wine streaked the sandstone tile and a cry of pain cut through the noise. The handmaiden kneeled by the poolside clasped a palm over her stinging cheek. 

 

“I don’t look well?” you asked her in a hiss, grasping her by the roots of her waved tresses and tugging her to you. Your nails dug into her scalp. You straightened up from the water; if not for the glistening sheen of clinging droplets on your prickling skin and pert breasts, exposed from the waist up. “Is that why he has not come yet? Because I do not look well? Because I’m unsightly!?”

 

Your voice boomed as it cracked.

 

The young maid stunned into petrifaction, beyond her, you looked anything but unsightly with your dark hair pouring over your milky skin. Your chest rising and falling erratically, and even with that stern expression of indignation, the handmaidens could not fathom how there could exist a more inviting sight for a man or woman alike.

 

They would not intervene. Nothing good ever came of it. It would likely end with your talons sunken into another girl’s tresses, or wrapped around her neck. The anger left to simmer and cool, like a disgruntled but tamed feline, you would eventually find your way again to some far recess of your own mind. Left alone, you were mostly harmless.

 

It was a long moment, longer for the girl you held captive, but finally you released her. 

 

 

“She’s like a water nymph,” one servant girl thought out loud as she crawled amongst the broken clay decanter splintered in every direction, still caught in her state of mortification.

 

“Do you think that’s what Hathor looks like?” another said, absently collecting shards of scattered clay, unable to distract from you. “A very vengeful Hathor? I can understand why His Majesty is so blinded by her.” There was longing in her voice. “How could anyone not be?”

 

“She seems more like an eater of men to me,” Ara spat. “And I hear she’s had her way with several.”

 

Deaf again to their gossip and defamation, you slunk back into the pool. Your hair a floating whirlwind above you, you looked to the ceiling. It was difficult to see now. It seemed to stretch far away from you.

 

“What was that about never laying with another...or do you not sleep?” you asked your husband, wherever he was. “...Are you some god? You feel like one...” You reached a hand to the elusive ceiling.

 

Your lips gaped slightly open, you could feel thought leaving you, and you gazed blankly up.

 

“Why do you not come?”

 

In your vulnerability, you were caught unaware of the young woman stealing to your side. She handed you another goblet, full and spilling at the edges without the need for the slightest tilt of it.

 

You accepted another and another, until you could not remember.

 

“...What is His Majesty like?”

 

“A selfish creature,” you said quietly. “A man who...once his needs are satiated, throws you aside like a dirty rag.” You allowed a disenchanted laugh. “When he wants you though...when he wants you, in his arms you feel like you are at the top of the world. How foolish...and like a fool I have given him...every part of me.”

 

“Do you mean your body...Your Highness? In intimacy?”

 

“In everything I suppose,” you slurred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus begins the second "arc"!


	15. My Future is Built Upon Your Flesh

“So! What is on Her Highness's official schedule of events today?” growled the handmaiden in charge of washing Pharaoh's bed linens. It was an especially irksome duty; none of the women wanted to be anywhere near the sheets which His Majesty shared with his empress. The telltale scent of emission was revolting. “Will she be rutting with the High Prince in the gardens? Or will she be lazing about in His Majesty's royal apartment, playing with her new wooden toys, ignorant of the threat to our borders? What a busy life our empress leads.”

“...Leave it be,” whispered her companion, another handmaiden in Pharaoh's retinue. She had been charged with assembling the queen's attire after each bath; another irksome duty. “It suits a wench like her.”

“Pitiful. Just shameful,” scorned the first woman.

…

The library was washed in a soft gold flicker. The sweeping tussles of your dress the strokes of whips about you, you discovered your husband enthralled by a dirty orphan; with silent steps into the depths of the great library. The young boy with arms like charred match sticks, brown and thin was sat before your husband, entertaining him with grand gestures of his arms, speaking endlessly with a grin which reached from ear to ear. 

The man who was so mindlessly occupied with the ruling of an empire was here, content in the comforts of a stiff wooden chair, with all the time to give to this filthy street rat and his foolish fictions. The man who could not find time to come to his newlywed bride’s bed was here, fascinated by him. 

You treaded silently, dwarfed amongst the grand, carved pillars, standing as wide as some peasant houses you had passed in your travels, amongst the rows of shelves housing scrolls too innumerable to ever know how many existed.

“Your Majesty, I’ve been looking all over,” you told him, appearing from between shadows. 

He spoke your birth name with certain surprise. “I was told you had retired for the night.”

You slipped on to his lap, nearly stepping on the slave boy. You placed a palm on your husband’s cheek, forcing him to look at you. 

“I was lonely, Your Majesty,” you told him, bringing with your own, his hand to palm your inner thigh over the sheer skirts. 

“What are you doing in front of a child?” he rebuked, snatching away his hand. 

With a glance over your shoulder, you saw he was indeed still there, fixed to the floor as he had been. In honesty, you had been hoping the intimacy would have driven him away. Alas, one required sense for such politeness, and a decent pedigree. Instead he watched.

You swept your skirt away from the dirty little rat folding it over your lap, derision plain; fearing perhaps, that it would graze by accident the orphan and be marred. 

“What are you staring at rat?” you asked it. “Get out.” Another phrase from the Khemetian tongue you had learned in your short time here.

The boy looked from you to your husband, eyes wide. 

Seto’s words were foreign. The boy stayed as he was. 

“What did you tell him?” you asked.

“I asked him to stay,” Seto countermanded calmly. 

“Stay?” you challenged, expression twisting. “Your wife is here, asking for you to come to bed, and you still  ask for the company of a filthy sewer rat? Take him to bed then why don’t you?” 

You stood away from him, pinning him with blazing eyes.

“Watch how you speak to me,” the emperor intoned. “He may not understand your words but your impertinence is plain.”

“I do not care!” you screamed. “I don’t care what a disgusting rodent has to think of me. Do you care to spend more time with this miserable slave than me? How dare — ”

“He gives me peace!” the young emperor barked, taking to his feet. He seemed to corner you only with how he stood closer. “Something you could never give me! Something you’ve never wished to give me.”

“I have no peace to give you!” you said, seething. 

“You would not listen the way he does, you do not let me speak my mind the way he does. He is freedom...” he said, “while you are shackles.”

“The only shackles are the ones you’ve placed on my ankles.” You breathed heavily but you could not hold you rage; you had become it. “And speak your mind Your Majesty? Look around you, the only person with the liberty to speak your mind in your great kingdom is you. Everyone else is forced to submit, lose their tongues, their heads, their lives! What would you have me listen to? Your thirst for murder? Or your insatiable proclivity to dismember those whose thoughts differ from yours?

“Whose child is he? Tell me!”

“He is mine,” Seto said gruffly. You stopped as you were, held your breath. Perhaps you had always known, from the moment you had laid eyes on the creature. Even though he looked nothing like your husband, suspicion had burgeoned. “And he will stay under my roof for as long as I wish it.”

“No!” It was the most animalistic shrill. “No!” you shrieked. “You are not its father! You did not father...” Your breaths rose and fell raggedly. “...I will not raise this filthy creature in my home, as my own —”

“This is not up for debate! Nor do I have the patience for an argument.”

The boy still remained. That just could not be. You plucked him up by the roots of his hair. “Bloody rodent I’ll have you mangled!” 

“Satieh calm yourself!” the great emperor ordered. 

The boy was thrown to fall with a resonating thud against a tall case of scrolls and a sharp slap tore across the emperor’s cheek. If his face stung as half as much as your palm did, fallen to your side, you imagined it would not soon be forgotten. After all, you had swung with all of your might.

“I will ruin us both!” you swore through gritted teeth. “Do you know what they say about me? That I’ve had my way with several men. Me...the girl who her own husband has not touched. Don’t expect me to stand here and beg you to bed me. You will not father my children. You are depraved! Kill me now while you still have the chance or so gods help us both, and this kingdom. I will bring war to your doorstep.”

Genuinely, it appeared to shock him. He stepped towards you, your name falling silently from his lips.  

“Don’t speak my name,” you spat. You spoke slowly, beholding his eyes with a most manic glare. “I will tie that slave’s limbs to four horses, and have one run north...the other east...third south...and the fourth west.”

“My queen...” he breathed, holding you by your arms. 

“And I will kill the tramp who crawled into your bed to birth that bastard.” You tore away from him, sweeping across the hall to the fallen boy to anchor an arm against his head, caging him.

He watched you through eyes framed with fear. Madness was reflected in them. “You will not live to see the light of tomorrow.” You were a beast baring its teeth, a beautiful goddess provoked on a warpath. “You’ve ruined my marriage, your mother defiled the man I love, but I will not let you have this kingdom the way my half-brother took mine. I will — ”

“Stop,” your husband commanded, lifting you bodily away. You thrashed and screamed, tears seeping on to your cheeks. “Our marriage is not ruined, the child is not my son. He’s just a boy,” he said, speaking your name softly, “just a bastard child that was brought in as a palace hand.” He held you, his chest rising and falling deeply against your back, always calm and unshaken. “If he were mine,” he said in your ear, “he’d be a prince...the crown prince. What motivation would I have to hide him?”

“You lie!” you growled, glaring at the boy trembling on the ground. “You say this so I will not touch your son. Well you are wrong to think I would be so foolish. The boy must die. I want him hung!”

You were still delirious, frightened; threatened. 

“I am not a man who would slaughter an innocent,” he said reprimanding you. “I had hoped you had seen me better.”

“Then exile him. So he may never see you, or this kingdom.”

The young emperor still held you. Contradicting his character in his patience. Then he spoke to the boy and the boy prostrated himself before you, arms splayed out and his knees tucked under him. He chanted something long and difficult. 

“He offers his queen his apologies, and his lifelong service,” Seto explained. “He says he will serve out any punishment of your  design until you are appeased.”

Pacified, or rather exhausted to submission, you hung limply from your husband’s arms.

“Let him serve me in the afterlife. As punishment for keeping my husband, doesn’t death fit the crime?” you asked.

Seto said your name with thinning patience. 

“Release me,” you told him. As he complied you made haste for the door. Though intent with one last note to hurt him, you told him over your shoulder. “I have no use for a sewer rat in my ranks. I can’t begin to fathom your motivations Your Majesty, but at the very least clothe and feed your child. He is starved...and the rags you’ve dressed him in are torn.”

 

“He is not my child!”

The emperor could not know if you had heard, the last sway of your skirts disappeared into the dark halls. 

...

“Are you looking at me now Your Majesty?” you asked, against his chest. You couldn’t see him, but you could feel him all around you; his burly arms, his sculpted chest pressed to your cheek, his heavy breaths blowing on your hair. The whole room probably smelt of soothing herbs and spices. His rough thighs were friction against your smoothness. 

Like a wind up doll, from when he left you, as if you had paused then, and beginning again from that same place.

He hummed, “Where else?”

“The stars perhaps...” There were stars on either side of you beyond the pillars opening to the balconies, between the gossamer curtains sailing the Nile wind. 

“Why would any man look elsewhere, with you in his arms?”

His words didn’t feel real. “Because Your Majesty, you posses the ability to be cruel. You don’t think about me. Tell me, I want to know, do you think about me when you’re away at court and at your war councils?”

“What woman is this possessive?” he husked. Was he stroking your hair? Yet there was no animosity in his statement, no irritation, only an underlying sense of amusement.

“If I, your wife is not to be possessive of you, who else should have such a right?” It was in every sense an order, a tone has you been awake and sober, you would never have used on the king. “Am I to drink myself to sleep every night? Am I to waste myself away with alcohol, waiting for you to come, convincing myself that it would still be alright if you didn’t.”

“Why did you drink so much?” he asked. “I can smell it on your breath.”

“I’ve been forced potion after potion down my throat at sunset for so long that I can no longer recall what it is like to sleep without its influence. You did this to me. To keep me, but it is you who has gone away. You no longer want me. Am I no longer desirable...without the chase? Having had all of me, has the thrill run out of your newest plaything?”

“I haven’t had all of you,” he reminded in a stern tone, escalating. 

“You did this to me,” you said in a quieter tone, your words as they had always been, a slur. “Now do you have someone else?” There was a pause, as if you had made up your mind. “I won’t allow that. I’ll make miserable and ruin every whore who dares to call herself Your Majesty’s woman.

“You are mine, do you understand Seto? You can only look at me.”

“What has gotten into you?” he asked in a rolling growl. “What empress is this insecure?”

“Is it insecurity,” you murmured, eyes always closed against him, hand fisted against his bare chest, “to say that I will demand the head of any woman who so much as looks in your direction?”

“This isn’t like you.”

“No. You made me like you.”

The young emperor wondered then, holding you perhaps a little tighter, was this love or obsession? And only in its realization, that what he held for you was different. It was impatient, but it was not obsession. 

“It isn’t becoming of a queen to act this way,” he said.

“An empress...does what she wants,” you told him in warning. It was difficult for him to separate the words from each other. “And you have made me an empress. So...you better be careful.”

“My queen,” he said breathing in the scent of your hair deeply as he pulled you to his chest. The words of a certain high priestess came to mind just then; she had said you were rather adorable. It was curious to him how those words had stayed with him. He watched you, purring silently against him, eyes closed, lips slight parted and cheeks blushed. Your fingers were clinging on to his bare chest desperately. He thought you looked more like a goddess the gods had picked for him right out of the sky. He had always seen a likeness to Bastet in you, but could there actually exist a goddess this lovely? It was a form even Hathor would envy.

And then you were bright, intelligent, your smile could launch a thousand ships.  

Was it your rejection that he so feared?

…

Ara allowed her eyes to sink a little deeper as His Majesty descended into the water. His physique roped with muscles, his bronzed form glowed under rich morning light stealing through gossamer curtains. Today she allowed her hands to wander; up through his shoulders to his hard pecs, fingers lingering languidly, inspiring his skin to prickle in waves at her touch. Indeed he was very responsive to her touch, though the man himself did nothing. As she slipped her palms slick with herbal soaps down his back, the fine hairs along his neck raised, and he contained a shiver.

“Does that feel good Your Majesty?” she whispered — almost purred — in his ear. 

He afforded her a grunt, his eyes moving behind closed lids. 

She had laboured over the composition of her next words, suffering her sleep, awake alone all night in the servants quarters. “I heard last night...that my brother in his impertinence did something which displeased Her Highness, Your Majesty,” she said, kneading his back with fisted knuckles. It was difficult to know still if anything was felt through his rough knots of muscle guarding his broad shoulders, though she could try. “He is but a child, Your Majesty,” she said, donning her best visage of sadness. “Please find mercy for him,  and if not mercy, pity. After we were abandoned by our father, and the passing of our mother, we came to the palace with nothing but the clothes on our backs.” Her eyes shifting nervously over her shoulder, she exchanged a tense glance with her fellow handmaids, watching from a distance. “He has nowhere to go, no home to speak of. He speaks of you like a father.”

“I am not his father,” the emperor replied. 

The young maid, no older than the empress herself recoiled. “A thousand pardons, Your Majesty. I did not mean to offend you.”

“A child who did not come from Satieh, cannot be my child,” he added, releasing a laboured sigh. Behind his closed lids he thought he could see her, just as he had left her, sleeping surrounded by his warmth on the sheets. He would go to you again directly after, he thought. 

“Your Majesty, if there is...anything — ” her palms slid over his pecs, leaning dangerously over the edge to speak in his ear “— that could be done for you to look kindly upon him again, body and soul I have devoted to your service...”

He sat there in stony unresponsiveness as she began gently kissing his neck, caressing him. Wavering, he closed his eyes. A shudder of need ran through him, but it was the woman lying in his bed who filled his mind, even while the smell of the maid plagued his nostrils, her musky odor of sweat covered up with sickening sweet perfume. He understood all too well a man's willingness to cheapen oneself merely to feel the soft touch of a woman for a short passing moment, but he refused to hunger for what did not exist. When Ara shyly grasped him beneath the water with an inexperienced caress, his body responded instantly, but his mind despaired. He was king and emperor, it was only expected of him to have whatever woman he desired, but he was drowning in the sheer emptiness of this meaningless ritual. He could not allow this to go any further. Suddenly, this was no longer enough.

His gaze traveled over to Ara and she froze, sensing his dangerous mood. At once she pulled her hand from the water yet still embracing him from behind. A seed of horror had taken root in her stomach whilst he scanned her face. He was staring at her with a hunger that was fathoms deeper than she felt she could ever satisfy. Unbidden, she recalled Empress Satieh's warning; of the kind of lover His Majesty was.

Ara stammered, “Whatever is wrong, I swear to make you feel better. All you need to do is lie back, and let me please you. Take me to your bed when you are through here. I will –”

Suddenly, he was clutching her forearms. Slowly, deftly, he removed himself from her embrace. “No, you cannot,” he said in studied idleness. “You couldn't possibly satisfy me.”

Ara tried to jerk away, but his fingers tightened. She felt like the mouse captured by the serpent. Coiling tighter and tighter, with no hope of escape. She would be squeezed to death.

 

“Y-your Majesty,” she cried out, pained. It felt as if her bones would shatter in his hands. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. “Please forgive this lowly servant...!”

“Listen closely, for I will not repeat myself,” he whispered. His blue eyes boring into hers. “You were welcomed into my household in honour of your brother's wishes, and you can just as easily be cast aside if you attempt this again.”

“Sire, please, anything but that! We have no other safe haven to return to...no other place to call home!”

“You overestimate your value as an individual,” Pharaoh Seti sneered. He turned around, releasing one of her forearms to grab her by her chin, forcing her not to look away. “Your younger brother would be kept at hand, to be groomed as a scholar in my service. But you?” His sneer became more pronounced. “There is no need to keep the likes of you as my handmaiden. I have thousands of women at my beck and call. Any number of them could take your place. And they would strive to be infinitely more obedient and useful than yourself.”

Ara sobbed wordlessly, trembling so violently it racked her whole body. Subconsciously her freed arm rose, her fingers grasping his soap covered shoulder in a silent plea.

But his harangue had yet to end. “And you claim to be able to satisfy my needs? Who are you, to strut yourself before me and proposition me? Have you deluded yourself into thinking you are the incarnation of the goddess of physical love?” Sharp blue eyes flickered to the side, regarding the other handmaidens prostrating themselves at the edge of the pool in fear, before returning his focus to Ara with pure disdain. “Were you hoping to bear my children? Become my second wife by intruding into my bedchamber? You and the rest of your kind can sear this into your memory – you couldn't possibly hope to replace Satieh. Unlike you, she is of divine blood. My equal. And thus the only woman worthy of being mine. Have I made myself clear?”

The heavy doors to the open baths swung open.

“Filthy wench,” the shrill disturbed the open air chamber. It wrote itself across the water in ripples. “Dare you seduce my husband?”

The maid was struck down before she could even anticipate retribution. Her temple meeting sandstone tile, she found the underside of a hard sandal pressed against the other. 

“You’re less than the dirt curling under my sandal, how dare your ambitions reach so far as to seduce a king!” Your foot pressed on harder; veins gathered on the young maiden’s forehead, pooling a reddening flush to her face. Suddenly the throbbing dealt by the back of your hand could no longer be felt.

Bearing the weight of his anklets, when your leg lifted from her face, she breathed a sigh of relief too soon. The foot with all its gathered momentum drove into the young maiden’s stomach, splintering pain through her core. She coiled as an injured armadillo, clutching her belly. Unsatisfied, possessed by jealousy, you swung your foot a second time, connecting then with her face. Her swallowed cry echoed. You could find in you no remorse...only a morbid sense of delight. 

“I should have broken your neck instead of your arm. I’ve never killed someone,” you said, kicking her belly again and again, “but you’ve certainly given me enough reason to try. Know that it’s an honour... an honour to die by a queen’s hand.

“No...” Another thought had occurred to you, and you stopped. “I should have you raped...by the entire royal guard, since  you hunger for a man’s touch so much. So much you are so willing to brazenly seduce a married man in broad daylight while his wife sleeps in the other room! But you would enjoy that wouldn’t you!? You would give yourself up willingly! You filthy whore!”

Your rage surged and filled every part of you, and when it could find no more places to fill, it became an energy needing to be expended, otherwise you thought you would burst. It set your foot into motion once again. 

A bloody blossom has bloomed on her fair face, and though you could not see, a bruise was forming under her clothes. 

It was all so devastating, what you had witnessed, that you feared it would never be enough. She was too mortal to endure all that you imagined for her. 

You would not know that the louder cries deafening the rooms were your own. 

Then you were suspended; arrested by a lock of steel. “Satieh!” a voice so hurtfully familiar boomed in your ear. “Have you lost all semblance of sense? What the hell are you saying? This is unbecoming of an empress!” Enraged by his defence of her, you swung for her again, but you found he kept you away at too great a distance. His arm trapping your small waist unmovable.

His skin was wet under his robes.

“How dare she touch you,” you said, your voice trembling. “How dare you let her.”

“Get a hold of yourself.” It was not a mere rebuke. There was disgust in his tone. “How could you, a woman, wish something so heinous upon another? Order it!”

“Your Majesty...” you moaned, softly.

“I question whether you are fit to be an empress of this nation. The woman who came into my court, a woman bred to be queen of her own, she has transformed to be so unrecognizable.”

Those words seem to set a blanket of tranquility over your mind; fear so unsettling that it numbed you with a nonchalance. He was saying he no longer adored you. You weren’t thinking. “Then there is nothing left to say. Depose me. And you will never see or hear of me again.”

“Do such words come easily to you?” he asked. You could feel his bind loosen.

“To escape the clutches of an unfaithful, loveless marriage, they do.”

“Get out,” he said once as you turned to him. Still his address to you was calm, drained of emotion. “You are no longer permitted to enter these bathing chambers.”

You held those unforgiving indicolite for only a passing second. They were much too fearsome to behold.  

Crossing him, you fled for the doors. Behind you, you imagined him running to his beloved. His footsteps were walking away after all, were they not?

You would not cry. You would not cry, you chanted in your mind. There were too many who would gain sadistic satisfaction.

Then the world fell up, and it was the face of the man who could not have left your side faster hovering over you, holding you to his chest as his barked silent commands to the world around him. His lips moved in agitation, his jaw clenched, but what was he saying?

…

 

You were numb. All the resentment, fear, and shock had churned and roiled together into a sensation of unrelenting, harrowing heaviness. Even as you slept, the heaviness seemed to find a home within your chest, expanding outwards, choking you.

Of course, after all you had endured in your life, living in fear of death, of being buried in a tomb before you could truly begin to live, being wedded to a man as powerful and as handsome as Pharaoh Seti wasn't, in fact, the worst possible outcome fate had planned for you. Any other woman would have gladly accepted the role of his queen, but you weren't prepared for this.

Floating somewhere between dreams and reality, you pondered on the decisions you'd made, the paths you'd traveled, and so much more. You asked yourself, how was a woman of your status expected to behave, how would a wise woman respond to these unfolding events? How did your mother survive when your father all but abandoned her, and brought in your stepmother? You didn't know, you couldn't have known. You could never have imagined being married to begin with. It was always just some fanciful, faraway vision of a distant future.

Except this was now frustrating reality, and the moment you awakened, you had to come to terms with what you'd witnessed your husband doing in the baths with the servant girl. After some contemplating, you savoured the idea of dealing revenge directly to Pharaoh, although ultimately you knew it was a foolish endeavour. And, somehow, you couldn't summon forth enough rage to fuel such an intent. It seemed utterly pointless.

What of the girl, Ara? If you dealt with her, another would take her place. There would be no end to the parade of women who desired the emperor, and the status that came with such a relationship. Is there a point to ridding the palace of one weed, only to allow three more to thrive in its place? Pharaoh had promised to bind himself only to you, but what good was the promise of a man who wouldn't grant you what you wanted most?

And furthermore, if you weren't permitted to exact punishments on the women which intruded on your marriage, were you simply expected to stay silent and apart from what was happening before your eyes? How far was a married woman allowed to express her dissatisfaction? Was she to be reviled for visiting retribution upon the women who would dare try to interfere with your marriage?

Back and forth you argued and reasoned with yourself, going in circles. At the end of your unconscious wanderings, you had ended up hopelessly lost.

Your suffocation grew.

When next you opened your eyes, you were ensconed in Seto's covers, lying in his bedchambers. The familiar intricate carvings of animals on the high ceilings indicated as such.

The late morning sun was kept at bay with the window panels, plunging the large room in intimate darkness. Reed-thin shafts of daylight stubbornly streamed through the cracks and across the linen blanket, directly over your face. For a brief moment you were enthralled by the sight of dust particles floating in and out of the scant light.

“You've awakened.” You jerked your head to the left to stare at the man you had not noticed was laying beside you underneath the covers, cradling your head with his arm. His brown hair fell uncaringly in his eyes, still mussed and slightly damp as if he'd barely touched it with a towel. He was dressed so simply, in a plain white tunic with a shallow neck, without a single piece of jewelry or gold adorning him that you almost couldn't put a name to his face. Those blue eyes of his, deeper than any ocean and paired with his handsome face, was the only visual proof of his identity.

“Seto.” Your voice came out much smaller than you'd intended.

He was still speaking to you; something about the side effects of your medicine but you barely heard him. Your mind felt empty of all rational thought, and all your senses could focus upon was the sensation of strong fingers massaging your scalp in gentle circular motions, the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

“I do not feel married to you,” you said, voice small and bitter. Your gaze fell to his exposed collarbones.

The fingers in your hair ceased moving; he became very still.

“I can recall some of the details of our marriage ceremony, but no matter how much time has passed since then, no matter how hard I try, I feel as if nothing has changed between us.” Your vision grew hazy with tears of frustration.

“Do you want to feel married?” he asked carefully, giving you his full attention.

Your head snapped up, but all you saw was his nonchalance. What else did you expect? He’d outright said how unbearable it was to be in your company. Not exactly the words of a man eager to stay by your side, now that he was your husband. But if he thought you would ask him to after such a crushing rejection – well, he could rot away before you would.

“No,” you said sharply. “Whatever gave you that idea?

“Ara...that girl, does she please you? Does she give you everything that I do not?” You kept looking at him, still he would only offer silence. “That slave boy, you said he was your freedom...is she your release then?”

“I have not touched her,” your husband avowed. 

“Are you afraid I would have her killed? Or tortured? Your lover.”

“A handmaiden of no consequence, how could she possibly be — ”

“Because you’ve bedded her! You’ve bedded her though you have not touched me! Is she with child? Is that why I have suddenly become a nuisance? The man who said he would never lay with another, the man who wasted me on a love potion on the night he wed me, why otherwise would he have gone so far away? Tell me king, tell me why you do not come to me...tell me why you do not hold me at night!”

“Is that what you think?” he asked, pulling his arms away. He positioned your head on the pillow with a careful consideration he didn't spare for his words or his tone. “That I am some debased philanderer, who frequents the sleeping chambers of all the women in the palace?”

“I did not say you frequented them all.”

“No, you’re implying something far more sinister,” he said lowly. “Though you must know, it is no crime for an emperor to have a harem of women, and still I have sworn to you my singular devotion at the exclusion of all else. You’re not willing to give as a wife should, but still I patiently wait.”

“The thought of giving myself to you now...it makes my skin crawl as if I’m infested all over with worms and insects. Gather a hundred women for your harem, or go to her. Go to her, and never look for me again!” With each syllable your pitch had climbed, and when it finally broke, it was a keening. 

The handsome emperor’s face spoiled with indignation and fury, he stood without another word, abandoning your bedside.  
You would not see him again for the next three weeks.

...

Far to the North of the Black Lands, the two armies of the Kingdoms of the Sun formed their battle lines across the harsh crimson plains, staring each other down.

The awe-inspiring Holy Army of Vasusena was 245,000 men strong. It was divided in twain, the left and right wings boasting 70,000 men each, flanking the central column of 105,000 men. Their camps were spread stragetically throughout three hills, and were ringed by a gigantic mass of troops.

The outermost ranks of infantry had formed spear lines, all of which carried two-handed pikes, each one easily over six meters long. These men were tasked with repelling the Imperial Army's cavalry, the core of their fighting strength. It was a solid formation, but not without its weaknesses.

Since the formation was dense and the pikes were very heavy, it was all they could do just to stay in place and prevent enemy charges. As such, they lacked the ability to respond to swift surgical strikes, and if the Khemetians used catapults or bowmen, they would sustain heavy losses.

Then again, not much more was expected from mere farmers. All that was required from these fanatical worshippers of the Hero of Charity was that they deflect the enemy vanguard's first charge.

On the other side of the battlefield, the Imperial Army of Khemet had 60,000 men. Their numbers were vastly inferior to those of the Holy Army.

Yet in spite of being outnumbered four to one, the soldiers of the Imperial Army remained unfettered, standing proudly shoulder to shoulder without so much as a hint of fear in their ranks. They were confident they would demolish whatever defenses the Vasusenans had set in place.

This arrogance was a result of the awareness of their own personal strength, honed from months and years of intense training in the harsh desert. It also came from the reassurance that their youngest and most brilliant general, Zahur the Deliverer, would be taking the field and leading them to victory.

Even so, it was a simple fact that there was a vast disparity in the military power of both sides. Once the Khemetians got tired, even the difference in their individual abilities would be rendered meaningless.

The Holy Army also had two more advantages.

Their first advantage was the presence of the winged humanoids which circled menacingly in the skies, protecting them.

These beasts, called Harpy Ladies, resembled beautiful women but were anything but. They were swifter than hawks, and as carnivorous as lions. They preyed on the unwary Imperial soldier, plucking them from the ground and tearing them to shreds.

The second advantage the Vasusenans had over the Khemetians, was the overall value of each individual warrior.

Most of the Holy Army's troops were conscripted farmers whom were only expected to hold a weapon and obey orders. In contrast, the Imperial Army fielded professionally trained soldiers outfitted with carefully customized equipment. Every loss by Khemet was more keenly felt than a similar loss by Vasusena.

The Imperial Army simply couldn't afford to squander their warriors in foolish offensives which provoked the wraths of the winged females circling above, or wars of attrition against the Holy Army.

Thus, the battles fought between the Kingdoms of the Sun these last four years were typically minor skirmishes. There was no need to waste valuable human resources. Even if Imperial Court Magician Mahaado took the field, it would still end in a minor skirmish. That was what most of Vasusena's nobles and peasants believed.

And so, Vasusena awaited Khemet's next move. These past four years, the Imperial Army would parade before the Holy Army and then fall back. Vasusena would then sound a victory cry. This was how it had always been.

Today however, the Imperial soldiers had remained stationary ever since they'd finished deploying from their grandly built encampment, the Sand Fortress, and arrayed themselves before the soldiers of the Holy Army. Twas as if they were waiting for the Vasusenans to make the first move, or for something else...

If the Imperial Army did not move, then neither could the Holy Army. An attack now would be extremely foolish, given that they had already formed their spear line.

And now, in a room within the main headquarters of the Holy Army, Red Emperor Karna himself sat upon a crudely made throne, with the ravishing Empress Yashvi standing serenely by his side.

A large wooden table dominated the center of the room, surrounded by the nobles who were studying the large map that had been rolled out upon its surface. There were several troop position markers on the map, and around it were countless reconnaissance reports, combat logs, dangerous wild beast appearance reports, and the like. Although there were winebearers standing at attention behind them, there was little left to drink. It was testament to the intensity of the debates that had taken place here.

The truth was that fatigue was starting to appear on the distinguished faces of all present. As one’s forces grew larger, there were more things which needed to be discussed, and more decisions that had to be made. While low-level issues could be delegated to subordinates, they had to coordinate the matters of the nobles within their factions personally.

Empress Yashvi, who looked the least exhausted of everyone gathered, opened her mouth to speak.

“Thank you all for your hard work. For the most part, I believe we’ve finished our preparations within the deadline. From now on we will begin discussing the strategy for the upcoming battle against the Black Lands.”

Her gaze swept across everyone present, and she held up a leatherskin parchment for all to see.

“This is a declaration from the Khemetian messengers that arrived several days ago. It states that the bloodless king, Pharaoh Seti himself, will be leading the enemy charge.”

...

Safe in the capital city of Sepfuruna, in the palace gardens, the flowering irises and the shrubs of ivy and all the trees swayed as the wind moved through tree branches. You looked up from your place on the stone bench to the figure suddenly sharing the shade the pomegranate tree bejewelled with ripe red fruit gave. 

He stood so tall that when your eyes rose to meet his face, the sun shone in your eyes.

“Leave us,” said Mahaado with a cough as Omar entered with your guards and those handmaids of your husband. “Her Highness and I must speak of things privately.”

Omar hesitated. He wasn't sure His Majesty's orders to keep the riffraff away from you included the Imperial Court Magician.

Seeing this, “the men are hungry and thirsty,” said Mahaado. “Yes. Take them to one of the lesser halls and have the food sent there. Tell them that I commanded it.”

Omar looked helplessly at him and then to you before stepping forward.

“Forgive me, Lord Mahaado, but I cannot-”

“Do as he says,” you intervened without looking back. “As...Lord Mahaado said, we must speak privately.”

“But, Your Highness!”

“Go Omar,” you suddenly snapped. “Or does a servant have leave to question his queen?”

He stiffened at that, and bowed haltingly before leaving, all the other sentinels in tow. Soon, it is only yourself and Mahaado beneath the tree, with the handmaidens keeping a respectful distance so as not to eavesdrop.

“Princess,” he addressed you at last from old habit. “I am so relieved to see you well.

“Please, help yourself to these,” he said with a wave of his hands as he seated himself on the stone bench. He indicated the dish piled high with a popular Khemetian dessert, a delightfully decorated baked sweet, which he'd brought with him. “The cooks insisted I take them, but I find it most difficult to do much eating in my current-”

“Mahaado!” you exclaimed, practically leaping onto his lap. You threw your arms around his neck, and pressed your lips to his cheek with unadulterated happiness.

He would only look at you, transfixed in complete shock. It would not occur to you that in the eyes of your procession of handmaidens, and to anyone else who looked on, this appeared to be a reunion of lovers long lost. Still, having familiarity for your native greeting, he said nothing to object, finding for you a small smile.

Snatching his large, roughened hands into yours, you brought it to your lips. In your mind, you fervently thanked the gods you scorned, for bringing him back safe from his long travels. If they truly existed in this world, they surely must have heard your silent pleas and granted you this chance out of pity.

When you met his deep brown eyes, he looked as if he had something to say, but overzealous in your enthusiasm, you embraced him once again. “You lied to me,” you said in a wobbly voice, still clinging tightly to him. The reluctance with which he reciprocated your embrace was not true to his own feelings. “You said you were a merchant, someone who had never met the king. Imagine my surprise when I discovered your disciple, and she revealed to me just how important a man you really are!”

You gave a watery laugh. “I should have realized it...no simple merchant could have known as much as you. Or be as intuitive and clever as you. You are a master of science and the secular. Someone who has been raised in a royal palace...just like me. That is how you could understand me.

“You understood me. You listened to me, and understood me. No one had ever come so close to my heart. When you left Genova I didn't know what to do with myself for the longest time.” So many words you had wished to tell him were spilling forth without censure. “I couldn't even remember how I'd spent my days, and I kept returning to the same spot on the beach where your ships had landed. When trade was established between Khemet and Delphini I never failed to come to the port, praying I would see you with the other merchants.

“I’ve missed you so, so much. Where have you been all this time?” Your arms still around him, you looked up as if to punctuate your question. Now that you were not suffering from the shock of nearly drowning, you could properly appreciate how his face was still as youthful and handsome as it was back then. It was as if he had only left your side for a day; as if the years of loneliness had all been a terribly long nightmare.

“There are many eyes, Your Highness,” he said cautiously eyeing the women behind him at a distance. “And I cannot see you anymore if you keep acting this way.”

“What took you so long to come find me?” you asked, ignoring his words. You rested your cheek against his chest once again, closing your eyes. His heartbeat was strong and steady, just like all those years ago when you had embraced him last. “I’ve waited,” you whispered. “Every moment I wished to share with you, that I was forced to experience without you, hurt so much. Each day passed so slowly, like a year. Yes. It is as if I've waited a thousand years...”

He inhaled sharply and forced you to part, and brought you to sit comfortably beside him on the bench, with a small amount of space in between the two of you. Your strict upbringing reared its head, and you felt immediately ashamed for revealing the true depths of your misery; you didn't mean to burden him. You didn't want him to reject you.

“I did not mean to keep you waiting, Your Highness,” he said to you softly. You still held on to his hand. “Please don't misunderstand me. I – enemies of His Majesty yet lurk these gardens, and having groundless rumours about you spreading amongst the Two Councils is the last thing I wish for you.” Your sullen expression didn't change, so he attempted to begin a new topic. “Your journey to Khemet...was it hard?”

The questions you were too timid to ask of Seto, you could ask of Mahaado. You knew he would indulge you, he always had before.

“I've heard so many stories, during my pilgrimage to Sepfuruna,” you began, all too eager to accept the change of subject. “I've only understood snippets but I was always eager to learn more of them.”

“Such as?”

“The most oft repeated tale is the one of Seto's predecessor. For each whisperer who recalls the Black Purges, another takes his place and speaks of the boy-king who sacrificed his life to protect these lands. Just what sort of ruler was he, to have his deeds be remembered and celebrated until this day?”

His eyebrows arched at your enthusiasm. “It pains me to disappoint you, my queen...the tale of the boy-king is riveting, but only that. A fanciful, riveting tale. One that His Majesty's enemies use to discredit him.”

Seeing your stunned expression he explained, “I have faithfully served as priest and alchemy advisor for the royal palace for twelve years. Long ago I answered the call of His Majesty's father – the previous king, Pharaoh Akhenaden. I can assure you he was far past his prime during his ascension.” His eyes adopted a misty, distant quality to them. “After Pharaoh Akhenaden's death, Seto...your husband, claimed his birthright.”

Your mood soured, your interest waned. “Yet the damnable Black Purges...they are the truth,” you whispered. “Seto, he – those other kings they spoke of, and their children. He really did –”

“–Yes,” Mahaado said, his voice unreadable. “They were directly threatening his divine right as the son of Ra...His Majesty had little choice in the matter.”

For the longest time, neither of you said anything after that.

You hesitated, before reaching towards the platter of baked sweets drizzled with sauce. It would have been a shame to leave such a delectable looking treat alone. Glancing back for an objection and finding none, you cut a piece and raised it to your lips, and began eating in earnest while he stared.

Briefly sated and feeling a pleasant warmth in your stomach after finishing one whole pancake, you set your utensils back down, your attention once again on your silent companion.

Even then however, you struggled to find the right words to speak. What words could suffice, would suffice, for the difficulties and tragedies that you'd recently encountered, of the changes that had swept not only you, but he as well?

And then Mahaado cleared his throat. “Did you know that Pharaoh once conquered an enemy stronghold alone? Without a single ally in the vicinity to aid him?”

You sighed and looked away. “No, but I am not surprised. He seems capable of achieving anything, if he puts his mind to it,” you said sullenly.

“It was during an operation to recapture a port town from the rebels,” Mahaado continued in a casual tone. Even as you kept your head bowed, he knew you were listening. “Pharaoh and his men were heavily outnumbered, but the rebel commander and his cronies had barricaded themselves within a house which once belonged to the town provost. Seeing that their rear was completely unguarded, Pharaoh came up with a plan. He left the command of the remaining loyalist soldiers to me, stripped himself of his clothing, and dived off a nearby cliff–”

“W-what?!” you exclaimed, whipping your head to face him. Your cheeks were bright red from the imagery.

“–he made sure to bring his sword with him, of course,” Mahaado noted. “And he swam along the shoreline to eventually reach the other side of the house. The ambush on the rebel commander was a resounding success. All thanks to our mad, naked commander.”

“You're a horrible liar!” you growled, still blushing from embarrassment. “Just as you lied to me about Seto having the head of a jackal! You liar!”

Mahaado laughed, and ducked away from your attempt to swat his nose. “Why don't you ask him about it, when he returns from the front lines? I'm sure he would enjoy telling you his side of the story...what's wrong?” he asked, watching your expression crumple.

“No, he wouldn't,” you whispered, digging your fingers into your lap. “He doesn't want me. He doesn't want anything to do with me. Now that I've become his trophy wife, he's returned to the battlefield, which he truly loves.”

“That isn't true, Your Highness,” Mahaado defended. “Even as he was preparing to leave, even as he attended the war councils, you were first and foremost on his mind.”

“Then why did he leave me behind?” you cried. That question which had been nagging your consciousness was surging out into the open. “He told me it was the duty of a wife to stay by his side, even as he went to war. I've always believed war to be a horrid thing. I certainly never wanted to make a spectacle out of it. But even then, I had prepared myself to witness the worst. That was what I'd decided to do, on the day I was married to him.”

“Did you tell him that?” Mahaado asked.

“What... why should I need to tell him such things?” you sniffled. “He should have realized it himself, when I made my vows to him.”

He nodded slowly, absorbing your words. “Perhaps. But if I may be more candid with you, Your Highness?” You gave him permission. “His Majesty...Seto, is a highly capable, intelligent and intuitive man who is unafraid of taking risks for the sake of reaping the rewards. But he is also someone who needs to be reassured.”

“Why would the most revered man in this realm need reassurance?”

“Because in spite of his achievements and his triumphs, he still believes that he is unworthy of love.”

...

 

Pharaoh Seti waved his arm. In response to his verbal gesture, a circle of magic materialized out of thin air. It was centered on him, shaped like a dome, with a radius of about ten meters. The soldiers that flanked him were engulfed by it, but they were unharmed. It would seem the magic circle did not affect allies.

The magic circle glowed bluish-white, and translucent symbols appeared across its length and breadth. The symbols changed with dizzying speed, shifting between languages and patterns that nobody had ever seen before. This fantastic sight drew the attention of the entire battlefield.

The Holy Army troops gasped out in surprise. There was no fear or tension in their voices; it was as if they were watching a beautiful show. However, the ones with keener instincts started looking around themselves in obvious discomfort.

 

 _He isn't there._ Seto thought, disappointed, after he deployed the Tribute Summoning Circle. _There are no Duelists amongst the Vasusenans._

Tribute Summoning magic was an incredibly powerful and advanced art in the Shadow Games. During a large-scale Duel, identifying and neutralizing any users of Tribute Summoning magic wasn't just a basic tactic, it was crucial to survival.

One could interrupt the spell in many ways. Direct assaults, for instance. Bombardment from above. Pinpoint shooting from extreme range. There were countless methods. However, none such attacks came toward Seto. Soon it became evident that there were no enemy Duelists in the Holy Army.

Seto smiled bitterly, a fact which went unseen by anyone. Hatred, thick and cloying, pooled at the bottom of his heart. He should have realized how meaningless this investigation was from the start.

All that was left in order to cast the Tribute Summoning Spell was the required incantation. The reason why he had not done this yet was because he had purposely placed himself in harm's way, to verify the existence of any possible Duelists in Red Emperor Karna's forces. Since there were none, Seto had no intention of delaying any longer. Having to stand immobile in the middle of a magic circle was quite foolish.

He took a deep breath and spoke the required incantation in a commanding voice.

“[Soul Exchange]!”

A forbodingly dark wind blew in the direction of the Holy Army's left wing, towards the 70,000 unsuspecting Vasusenans. In between heartbeats, every single one of them had their souls forcibly extracted.

...

What happened? Nobody watching could answer immediately. It was too sudden.

Every single living creature that made up the left wing of the Holy Army – not just humans, but their horses and tamed beasts – had abruptly collapsed to the ground like puppets whose strings had been cut.

The ones who realized the answer first were the Imperial Army troops, Seto's own men. It took a while for the human mind to properly parse the events that had just transpired before their eyes. So after a slight delay, shouts of panic rose into the air, becoming a great wave that engulfed the entire Imperial Army.

Certainly, they knew that Pharaoh Seti was going to cast a spell. But who could have possibly anticipated this? Who could have guessed that he would cast such a horrific spell? Who could have imagined that he knew a spell which could slaughter 70,000 people – a number greater than the entire Imperial Army – in an instant?

The Khemetians doubted their eyes, even as they prayed to whatever gods they believed in. They prayed that the soldiers of the Holy Army had survived. They prayed that such terrible magic did not exist in this world.

As the awful, unvarnished truth of the situation sunk in completely – that not a single person or animal had stood back up from where they fell – they were fully aware that it was nothing but wishful thinking. Even so, there was no way they could just accept it. There was no way they could accept this as reality.

The man hailed as the youngest and most powerful general in the Black Lands, Zahur the Deliverer, could only grind his teeth in naked terror and stare dumbfoundedly at the depopulated left wing of the enemy army.

Pharaoh Seti...was a monster who could obliterate entire nations in the same way that a child could kick down a sandcastle.

The panicked cries enveloping the Imperial Army gradually vanished. In the end, everyone simply fell silent, unable to speak. This was the terror born of realizing that the Two Lands, where they and their families lived, now stood on the edge of extinction, just like Vasusena. This was an understanding that if they dared to raise their hands against this Tyrant, that same awful magic might end up being turned on themselves...

Under these circumstances, Zahur suddenly thought of something. What kind of expression did a man like this – who could work a sorcery that could slaughter the living in quantities that beggared mortal comprehension – what kind of expression did he have? Without moving his handsome face, he spied on the monster standing beside him, but all he saw was indifference.

_How can this be possible? How can someone like him be so calm? Even after taking 70,000 lives?! Granted, the battlefield is a place of death. The weak losing their lives is only to be expected. But even so, shouldn’t he feel something in his heart after killing so many people?!_

Regret or guilt would be the natural response. If he felt joy or excitement, that might even be understandable, abnormal as such a reaction might be.

_Is this indifference some sort of defensive reaction to protect his heart? No, this must be familiar scenery for a monster like him! Why is this happening? Why does someone like this exist in our world?!_

“—Is something the matter?”

The words were like a spike of cold steel driven into him. Zahur's response to the question was a startled cry lacking any of his dignity. “No-nothing’s wrong, Your Majesty. That spell just now...it was magnificent.”

Zahur gave silent thanks that he was still able to speak. More than that — the fact that he could praise Pharaoh Seti under such circumstances was nothing short of laudable.

“Heh.” His desperate compliment was met with a faint chuckle.

“Have I given offense, Your Majesty?”

“No, none at all. You said that spell just now was magnificent, right?”

“Y-yes.” _Was that worth laughing at?_ Sweat flowed down Zahur's forehead like a river. After witnessing the dreadful consequences of angering Pharaoh first hand, he had no intention of incurring his ire.

“Be at ease. Although...I must clarify. The spell is not complete yet. Now is when the real show begins. According to the legend, when a Duelist makes an appropriate offering to the Creator of Light, she will reciprocate by sending one of her offspring...”

 

Pharaoh Seti's men were the first to see it. It was expected that these warriors, watching from afar, from a safe distance, would see it first. They dared to watch with eyes wide open.

After the gust of wind had claimed the lives of the Vasusenan soldiers, something appeared in the sky; a shining white sphere which seemed to fill the world with its very presence.

Who on the the other side saw it first? It was most likely the troops of the right wing, who had no direct line of sight to what had happened on the other side. They'd sensed that something abnormal was going on, but they did not know what exactly had happened, and as they looked around to find out what was going on, they saw it. As though their eyes were being guided there. In this way, everyone who had gathered to wage war on these crimson plains ended up staring silently at the sphere floating in the sky.

The sphere – which resembled nothing so much as a hole in the heavens – was like an opened spiderweb; once one caught sight of it, one could not pull away.

The white sphere slowly grew larger. Be it fighting or fleeing, no human could engage in any meaningful thought or activity. All they could do was stare dumbly.

And eventually, it fell.

In a thoroughly natural fashion, the falling sphere broke apart when it touched the earth. It burst like an overripe fruit striking the ground.

It was full of something that spread outwards from the point of impact. It was something like coal tar. It absorbed the light, like a wave of infinitely-expanding black stickiness, and it swallowed the corpses of the Holy Army soldiers.

Nobody thought it would end there. They had a premonition – this was only the beginning of their despair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Her outfit in the study:https://pin.it/c7mubjr7z2j4v2  
> Her outfit in the gardens: https://pin.it/iajujvkvm25jna


End file.
